Of Droids and Jedi
by Dooko
Summary: The not so epic tales of a man who had better things to do then save the galaxy.
1. Freedom is a Four Letter Word

(Star Wars and everything related to it belongs to Mr. Lucas.)

On the quiet farming planet of Dantooine, four Jedi Masters were eagerly doing what it was that they did best; lecturing young people on the perils of fun, excitement, and life in general.

Meanwhile in front of them, the easily distracted and highly unmotivated Lane Jerko, Republic Scout ID#-UN1337, did what it was he that did best. Which, as fate would have it, was not paying attention.

It was something he had been doing a lot of lately ever since he had woken up in a distant Republic outpost nearly a year ago. With no clue how he got there, or what had happen to his beloved ship, Lane had been forced to sign on with the Republic as a scout in order to pay off the near-criminal medical expenses he had apparently accumulated. It had not been a very good contract either, but it had been his only option at the time.

Now he found himself on a planet that even a conservative librarian would find stifling, and listening to a long winded speech from an alien that could easily double as a lawn ordainment on a rainy day.

To his left, stood Bastila Shan, the young, proud, beautiful, and highly ambitious padawan of the Jedi Order. Even from here, Lane could smell her strangely intoxicating perfume, or at least he _hoped_ it was her perfume.

Less then a week ago, Lane had fought Sith patrols, packs of rak ghouls, big stinking pig-men, inconspicuously placed rancors, swoop gangs, and spent entirely too much time wandering around in sewers, in an effort to rescue her. He had been beaten, bruised, yelled at, shot at, stabbed, blown up, burnt, electrocuted, gassed, ran over, spat on, vomited on, bled on, and an assortment of other things he was still trying desperately to forget, before he finally found her.

Surprisingly, after seeing the beautiful young Jedi standing there helplessly in an intriguingly-leather outfit, all his suffering had suddenly seemed worth while. He had even vowed then and there to do anything and everything possible to recuse that vision of loveliness that he saw before him.

Of course once he had, that same vision of loveliness had to go and open her mouth, and ruin the whole thing.

She had been arrogant and bossy, annoying and insulting, and a host of other things that not even Lane would comment upon in mixed company. She had practically dismissed all of his efforts to rescue her, and instead chose only to listen to the supposed Republic War-Hero, Carth Onasi. This had infuriated Lane. Not to mention the young Jedi and Carth had then become nearly inseparable. They had bickered. They had pulled rank. They had even gazed longingly at one another from across a crowded room.

Lane was not stupid. He knew what was going on, and the way Bastila had completely wrote off all of his efforts to rescue her had only confirmed his suspicions.+

Yet, Lane had been surprised at how jealous he had felt.

Eventually his jealousy got the better of him, and he had set off on his own to find a way off Taris. Thereby leaving Bastila, Carth, Mission, and the Wookie to argue and flirt amongst themselves. He had then met up with the Mandalorian Canderous, and purchased the droid T3-M4. Together, they had been able to find away off Taris. Unfortunately this had also meant taking the others a long with them.

Oh well, he would be free of them soon, he reminded himself while the Jedi Masters prattled on in front of him.

-

". . .that is why we are considering _you_ for Jedi training. Only then can you, along with your companions, set about stopping the Dark Lord of the Sith," Master Zhar finished, and folded his arms together.

Lane quickly stirred himself out of his day-dreaming, having sensed something was expected of him when everyone in the room began quietly staring at him.

He quickly tried to remember what all the Jedi Masters had said about duty, obligation, and companionship. His thoughts then turned to Bastila, then to Carth, and then to _Bastila and Carth,_ and how annoying they had been on Taris.

Lane scowled at the memories, as his jealousy peaked once again.

"Nah. I think I'll pass. Thanks for the offer though," said Lane

_"What? What do you mean you'll pass?!_ _Have you heard nothing we've said!"_ shouted an outraged Master Vrook.

"I heard you," Lane yawned. "Darth Malak, evil Sith Empire, fate of the galaxy and all that; it's not for me."

"Why you audacious little—, "

"—Master Vrook, patience please, " said Master Vandar. The small alien turned to Lane. "The council will respect your decision, . . . if this is what you wish."

"Great," said Lane, "Good luck with the whole civil war thing," he gave the Jedi council a friendly wave on his way out. "I'm rooting for you."

-

Lane stretched, and yawned again just as he stepped out into the corridor.

"Whew, talk about dodging a bullet. . ." Lane said aloud.

"Huh? What did the council want with you?" asked an irritated Carth, who had been trying to listen to the meeting from behind the door.

"Oh, they wanted me to become a Jedi, and save the galaxy from the Sith, I think," said Lane. "Apparently they are getting awfully desperate."

Carth was stunned.

"_You? A Jedi?!"_ the Republic soldier snapped in disbelief.

"Um, yeah. Weird huh?" said Lane sheepishly, although he was secretly enjoying the look of disgust on the republic soldier's face.

Ever since they had first met, Carth had annoyed the heck out of Lane with his constant paranoid questioning. Things had definitely not improved after Bastila joined them, either. Lane had practically been counting the seconds until he could be free of them both, and now was his big chance.

"Anyway, I turned them down," said Lane, "I have better things to do."

"You turned them down?" said Carth, gritting his teeth. "They give you the chance of a lifetime, and you say. . . no?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

-

Lane made his way back towards the landing pad and the _Ebon Hawk_, nodding politely to any Jedi he came across.

Carth followed behind him, fuming at the young scout's willful negligence towards the rest of the galaxy. His mind was boiling with suspicions.

He was well aware that the Republic allowed their deep space scouts more leeway when it came to military discipline and Republic-regulations, but Lane's actions on Taris had been too much. Carth also knew that, as the ranking Republic officer, _he_ should have been the one in charge on Taris. _He_ should have been the one to rescue Bastila, and not this . . .

A thought suddenly dawned on Carth as he watched Lane walk up the _Ebon Hawk's_ loading ramp, and into the ship.

_Of course! That's it! He's a spy! . . . _but for who? Carth stopped to wondered at the base of the ramp. Part of him was momentarily taken back by this inconvenient and uncharacteristically _sensible_ question, but he quickly recovered. _That's not important! He's a spy! He's going to try and gain our trust slowly over a period of time, only to then betray us, and—_Ow

Suddenly, Carth's thoughts were interrupted by his pack, which contained his few remaining belongings from Taris, hitting him squarely in the the head. He fell backwards with a loud thud.

"Geez, nice reflexes, Ace," said a satisfied and smirking Lane, just as the loading ramp began to close.

-

Within the _Ebon Hawk's_ cockpit, Lane found his new droid, T3-M4, was still running diagnostic checks on the ships systems.

"So, how's my lovely new ship?" asked Lane, practically kicking his heels in excitement.

"Beep-beep woo," replied T3, in a tone that sounded a little too sarcastic for droid.

"Damn, and we're not likely to find a replacement in a by the books Jedi Enclave, eh?"

"Beep-beep frotz."

"Well. . ., I just hope it holds for that long. Tatooine isn't exactly close."

"Beep woop weep."

"Right, then you can fly while I get some rest."

"Beep-beep woo!"

"Because, I doubt they know how."

"Beep beep . . .beep?"

"He's not coming with us."

"Beep?"

"No, she isn't either."

"Beep-beep, . . ._woop._"

"I am _not!_ I'm glad to be rid of her," snorted Lane, "Now, c'mon—"

" '_Wop wop wop._' "

"—and stop snickering like that."

-

After inputing the coordinates into the nav-computer, Lane flopped down into the _Ebon Hawk's _cushy pilot seat. Which, he thought gleefully, was now _his. _

"T3 my friend, . . .today, life is _good_," said Lane, leaning back.

Suddenly, an out of breath Mission rushed into the cockpit

"Are we leaving so soon? I hardly had a chance to look around" Mission pouted.

"Yes, we are. I don't like it here," said Lane. "For some reason these Jedi make my skin crawl, but you're welcome to stay if you want," he added, hopefully.

"No, like I told you on Taris, Big-Z and I are with you all the way—,"

"Don't remind me," Lane shook his head.

"—and I mean it." said Mission, seemingly not hearing Lane's not so subtle interjection as she sat down in the co-pilot's seat.

"How about you, Canderous?"

The large Mandalorian had quietly been learning against the wall.

"It's not likely I'd find any work on this planet with all these Jedi around. What do you have in mind?"

"I don't know, maybe some bounty hunting, or salvaging, or maybe a bit of smuggling; whatever pays," said Lane. "I'll even let you do most of the killing."

"Sure. As long as I see some action, I'm in."

"In that case. . .," Lane sat up straight, fixed his eyes on the stars above, and raised his hand. "It's one-hundred and six thousand parsecs to Tatooine," he said, "We got a full cargohold of Tarisian ale, a busted up hyper-drive, a pair of slave girls, an exiled wookie, an out of work Mandalorian, an underage Twi'lek, the Sith are probably after us, it's dark, and we're all wearing sunglasses. . . T3—"

"No, we aren't," Mission interrupted.

"—_What?_"

"We're not wearing sunglasses. You said they cost too much, remember?" Mission explained, "Although, I think we might have enough cardio-regulators to go around. There seemed to be a lot of them on Taris."

"Right, _whatever_," said Lane, annoyed at the interruption, "T3,—"

"We haven't got any slaves, either," said Canderous, spitefully, "y_our_ Jedi Princess set them free as soon as we landed on Dantooine."

Lane sighed. Some people really had no sense of the moment,"—_T3,_ hit it!"

-

The Ebon Hawk remained stationary on the landing pad. There was a single muffled clank from within.

"_Beep, woop?"_

"_Not literally, you bucket of bolts."_

"_woo."_

And then, with what could only be called a strange kind of stagger, the Ebon Hawk slowly raised itself off the ground, and took to the skies.

-

Carth watched the spaceship climb higher and higher into dark atmosphere above. Even though part of him suspected it was all just a clever ploy to lure him into a false sense of security, so he could then be _betrayed_ later.

"Ha, I won't be fooled that easy!" Carth roared, defiantly shaking his fist at the sky. No spy was going to fool him!

-.

Meanwhile, Bastila stepped out of the Council's chambers , feeling both flustered and aggravated.

She just spent the last twenty minutes trying to assure the Masters that she was not to blame for Lane's decision. Not that it had been much use. When he had rejected the Council's offer, every one of the Jedi Masters had been able to see clearly see into Lane's mind, and they had not liked what they saw there at all.

For one thing, there had been a lot of images of Bastila, or more precisely, images of _specific regions_ of Bastila. This had worried them, especially Master Vrook, who had to be reminded of the Jedi code no less then seven times by the other Masters. There had also been a number of troubling images of her and Carth together. This had earned a number of disapproving glances from the Masters. Bastila was certain there were going to be long lectures on the terrible dangers of romance, and the healthiness of cold showers and brisk morning jogs in her very immediate future.

However worse still, underneath Lane's outer hormone laden mind, the Jedi Masters had clearly sensed something sinister lurking. Each of them had recognized it as the same something they thought they had removed from the galaxy nearly a year ago. The very same something that had caused incalculable amounts of pain and suffering throughout the galaxy.

It had winked at them.

And now, as much as Bastila hated the thought of it, she knew she had to speak to Lane.

-

"Carth," said Bastila when she emerged from the Enclave corridor, "what are you doing out here?"

"Well, you see. I—," said Carth.

Bastila shook her head slightly.

"Never mind that, Carth. Where is Lane? I must speak with him."

"He's gone," Carth pointed towards the night sky, "_. . .or so he wants us to think!"_

Like everyone else who had spent more then a few moments in Carth's company, Bastila had learned to ignore the pilot's incessant paranoia.

"We must find him! The fate of the galaxy is at stake!"

_Finally_, thought Carth, someone else who had seen through all the trickery and lies. Lane was _dangerous._ He was _deceptive_. He had _refused_ to share his life story on Taris! Ever since he had been hit in the head, things had become much clearer.

"You're right, Bastila," said Carth, sticking out his chin with an overly symbolic flair, "for the safety of the entire galaxy, . . . we _must_ stop him."

Carth ran a gloved hand through his dark and heavily conditioned hair. He then gave the young jedi his specially patented _look_. The same one that he practiced in the mirror each night before bed. It was always a pleaser with the ladies. _At least, that is, the ones that weren't secretly out to betray him, _he quickly reminded himself.

"What? . . .Oh, yes. You're right," said Bastila, who had been taken back by how suddenly dashing, and more surprisingly, how uncharacteristically _sane_ Carth had almost sounded. Maybe she had misjudged him.

"_. . . and I won't sit around and wait for him to betray me either!"_

Then again, maybe not. Bastila sighed.

-

The Ebon Hawk swam through space like a inebriated salmon through a river of vaguely inconsequential unimportance. The auto-pilot ensured that the right buttons beeped. The right flashers flashed, and the Levers were leveled. Thus freeing the crew to whatever indulgence they fancied. However, since the ship did not contain a five squad firing range, ice-cream parlor, nor a multi-species strip club; they had settled for watching the telecast monitor. They soon regretted this.

"_Just the good ol' boys. . . Never meanin' no harm. . .," _blared the monitor.

"Change it already," ordered Canderous.

". . ._beats all you never saw. . ." _

"I can't," said Mission. "Lane had T3 do something to the receiver before he went to sleep."

". . ._been in trouble with the law since the day they was born. . ."_

"Beep-woop weep!"

". . ._straight'nin' the curves. . . ."_

"No one is blaming you, T3," said Mission.

". . ._flat'nin' the hills. . . ." _

"Oh, those are _definitely_ fake," said Mission, after a female Twi'lek appeared on the screen.

". . ._someday the mountain might get 'em, but the law never will."_

"Who cares," said Canderous, "they look real enough, and that is all that counts."

"Rroogh uraagah groha," said Zaalbar.

Both Mission and Canderous edged away from the wookie.

"That's just _creepy_, Big-Z."

-

The Leviathan, flagship of the Sith fleet, continued its orbit around the now _extremely_ ruined remains of Taris.

The Sith had came to the planet in search of the Jedi Bastila. Acting on the fear of losing her, Malak had the Sith fleet destroy the entire planet. This devastating act had, at first, shocked even the Sith themselves. The Sith soldiers could only wonder about the terrible and ruthless mind behind their current leader.

Now however, after a very confusing week , while they were still wondering about the mind behind their Dark Lord, it was for entirely different reasons.

"Taris is. . . is completely destroyed, _again,_ m'lord," said Admiral Saul Karath, commander of the Sith fleet. "The city is ruins, _again. _They. . .," the Admiral shook his head,"_again,_ offer no resistance."

"Excellent," said Malak, who did not turn his big-eyed gaze away from the ruined planet below.

Admiral Karath was beginning to wonder about Darth Malak, himself. So far, the Dark Lord had ordered the destruction of Taris eleven times over the past week. It had been bad enough when he tried to change the color of the standard Sith uniforms, but this was proving to be even worse. People were beginning to _talk_.

First, they had bombed the planet's larger structures to rubble. Then, the not so large structures. Then, the only slightly bigger then average structures, and so on. By now, the pattern had continued the point where the Sith were being forced to send out construction crews to build new structures, just in order to have something to destroy. The whole matter had become becoming terribly depressing, and a real morale killer. Plus, they were running out of plywood.

Despite his misgivings the elderly Admiral waited patiently, while in his mind he was hoping against hope that the Dark Lord would, at least, say something different this time.

"We cannot risk Bastila escaping us," said Dark Malak.

Admiral Karath sighed, and inwardly cursed all of creation.

"Admiral, I want this planet completely destroyed. Wipe its pathetic existence from galaxy one and for all," ordered the Dark Lord of the Sith, seemingly oblivious to the scornful and tired glances from the bridge crew of the Leviathan.

"Perhaps, m'lord, . . .we should—"

"Your predecessor once made the mistake of questioning my orders, I would hope you are not about to repeat his mistake."

"No, m'lord. . . .I shall order it at once." Karath said, shaking his head in resignation.

-

Within a bunk on board the Ebon Hawk, a prone figure snored. Occasionally it grunted. All too often, it scratched itself in less then modest places. Although beneath all of this, it dreamed.

"_The council will never accept us back after this.-"_

"_-Even from here, I can feel its dark power around us.-"_

"_-I can only wonder if the path we start here today will lead to something darker then either of us can imagine."_

"_Sheesh, listen to you. I haven't even gotten the door open yet, and you're already taking on like some emo-goth Jugian."_

"_I am only concerned about what foreboding fate may await us at the end of this sinister journey."_

"_Fine. You go on and run back to the Council. I'm sure they'll welcome you back with open arms, too, along with all the other 'children' I apparently led astray. You can then tell me about how it went when I come to sack Coruscant."_

"_Ahh. . . would be that a fitting end for such as us. For we, former brothers of the order, forced by the. . . um, . . . force, to face each other in single combat to decide the fate of the galaxy."_

"_Malak, if you don't cut out all this bloody nonsense, and help me with this blasted door, we're going to be facing each other in combat a lot sooner then that!" _

"_Forgive me, Revan, but I fear if I strain myself in this bastion of darkness, I may not have the strength to maintain my diligence towards the light."_

"_. . . You are SO lucky the Jedi exiled Tarah."_

"_We both know my abilities far surpass hers , Revan."_

"_Maybe, but she had breasts, and would probably know how to open this damned door. Which is a hell of a lot more then I can say for you."_

-

A small two-man shuttle rocketed away from Dantooine's atmosphere.

"How do you even know where he is headed?" asked Carth, punching in the coordinates for the remote planet of Tatooine.

"I told you Carth," said Bastila, annoyed at having to explain things once again, "through the force, he and I share a bond. A bond that links our minds together. I was able to determine that he was headed to the remote planet of Tatooine."

"Wow, that sounds complicated," Carth looked impressed, although he had already come to a strict conclusion about how trustworthy any one linked to Lane, in any matter, could possibly be.

Bastila merely nodded. She was too busy trying to convince herself that she hadn't lied to either the Council, or Carth. Technically, it was true that due to their force bond, she had been able to sense many of the thoughts passing through Lane's head, even at a great distance. Therefore, since it was entirely possible she _could have_ used to force to determine Lane's destination, there was no actual reason for her to mention the message she had received from Mission before the Ebon Hawk had left Dantooine's system.

Of course, she was not entirely sure why the young Twi'lek had done this, but now was not the time to question the motives of others. Regardless, it was undoubtedly the will of the force.

She smiled at her reasoning. Bastila knew she would someday make a fine political-litigation advisor; should the whole Jedi thing not work out.

-

"We're here!" beamed a cheerful Mission, after prodding Lane awake.

Lane groaned and got to his feet. It felt like he hadn't been asleep for more then a few moments.

"You look terrible," Mission put her hand to his head. "Bad dreams?"

"Mmhmm, this time it was two men, and no women at all," Lane yawned. "I was better off when I was dreaming about Bastila."

He immediately sensed his error, and mentally slapped his forehead.

"Whoa, you were dreaming about that snobby little thing?" Mission asked with a smirking grin.

"Yeah, well, she wasn't so bad in the dreams," said Lane. "Probably because she didn't speak," he added, and pulled off his shirt.

Oblivious to Mission's embarrassment, Lane began changing his clothes. The tight Republic issued underwear wouldn't cut it on a desert planet like Tatooine. Besides, they made him feel too constricted. His boys needed to be free, he told himself.

Mission quickly turned around to give Lane some sense of privacy, not that he had seemed all that concerned about it.

"So, you liked her that much?" the young Twi'lek asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"Nah. Not that it matters now," said Lane, while trying to rip the arms out of the shirt he had been wearing. "I think she had a thing for that Carth guy, anyhow."

"Carth. . ., but I thought he was gay?" Mission looked confused. "I mean, the guy practically couldn't keep his eyes off you the entire time we were on Taris. Then on Dantooine, he was so moody every time you left."

At this sudden and terrifying thought, Lane, who had been in the midst of putting his pants back on, tripped over a stray pants' leg, and landed heavily on the floor.

Having a conversation about the sexual orientation of extremely paranoid pilots in stressful environments, as Lane very specifically chose to think of it, was not something he wished to discuss with the young Twi'lek girl. _Ever_. In fact, if there was ever a list of things he _did_ want to talk with Mission about, which was very likely to be a short list to begin with, somewhere near the top would be a long lecture about never mentioning anything like that to him ever again.

For now, however, he just cringed, and tried to put the sheer horribleness of the idea out of mind.

"Well even so, " Mission continued, "Bastila still must have made quite an impression, if you are dreaming about her."

"_Were_ dreaming," corrected Lane. "I'm not anymore, remember?"

"Oh _right_. Now you've moved onto dreaming about two guys." Mission giggled conspiratorially, "Maybe you'll be dreaming about Carth, next."

Lane scowled at the young Twi'lek.

"You're becoming just as annoying as T3."

"That reminds me," said Mission, "You should have a look at him. He's been acting awfully weird lately."

"Why?" Lane shrugged, as far as he was concerned, he already had enough problems to worry about.

"Ever since we left Dantooine, he has been watching those weird shows on the telecast monitor non-stop. Then after we landed, he asked if he could be panted brown, with orange stripes," said Mission. "He's also insisting we call him _TC _from now on."

Lane shook his head in resignation.

A year of ago, that would have seemed strange to him, too. However after all these months of working for the Republic, it almost seemed ordinary.

"I'll try to get his memory wiped while we're here, " said Lane with a non-committed shrug.

Outside the ship, Tatooine waited. After all, there was little else it could do.


	2. Tatooine Troubles

(Mr. Lucas still owns everything.)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The crew of the _Ebon Hawk_ found Tatooine to be exactly how they had imagined it would be. It was hot. It was dry. And it was about as exciting as a Jedi Master's underwear drawer in the middle of winter. The planet itself perpetuated dullness. The people were dull. The shops were dull. Even the heat, while quite overbearing, had a sense of dullness to it.

"Gee, this place is dull," said Lane.

"Wee—ell," said Mission in a voice Lane was really starting to hate, "the holo-net did say that the chief exports were sand and boredom."

"And we came _here_ to find work," grunted Canderous. "Are you sure we can find those parts here?"

"According to that ad on the holo-net, we can" said Mission.

Meanwhile behind them, Lane peered into a dilapidated abode through its lone dusty window. It looked like it had been abandoned for a long time.

"Its almost like coming home," he said.

Canderous and Mission looked back at him in surprise.

"You're from this dried up planet?" said Canderous.

"Huh?" Lane looked up confused. He had not even been aware he had said anything. "Of course not. I was born on. . ." Lane trailed off, his memory seemed so cloudy all of a sudden.

"Born on. . .?" Mission edged him on.

"Actually, I can't really seem to remember," said Lane.

"Weird. I didn't think anyone could forget their birth-planet."

"Well, now you know differently, " Lane hissed irritably. Why did everyone have to ask so many questions?

-

The group continued through the streets of Anchorhead until they passed by a trio of black-hooded figures.

"Ah ha!" shouted the apparent leader. "Lord Malak will be most displeased when he learns you—_Oh_," the man stopped, after having looked over the group. " 'Beg your pardon, I thought you were someone else."

"Not a problem," said Lane, cheerfully as he walked past. "Nice threads, by the way."

-

"I've never seen such a dried up planet," said Mission, sitting down on a dust covered bench.

The group had ended up at the gates of Anchorhead without seeing anything of interest, or reasonably transparent value.

"The kid has a point. Let's hurry up, and head to somewhere with a bit of a life to it," said Canderous.

"Oh, alright already, I get the point," Lane scowled, part of him had been enjoying the vague sense of relaxation the desert planet seemed to offer in such abundance.

"Mission, you and the wookie see if you can find a trader who'll buy some of our ale; we could use the extra money. Canderous, start asking around about viable work, " Lane turned to the Mandalorian, "and be _discreet _about it."

"What do you mean by that?" Canderous scoffed.

"I mean," Lane sighed, "don't just barge up to people and then ask them if there is anyone they want dead. Use some _tact_, or something."

"Whatever," Canderous looked at his feet, and kicked at the ground.

"And what are you going to do?" said Mission.

"I'm going to see about those parts, and T3." said Lane.

The group reluctantly broke off into different directions.

-

"Beep-woop?"

"No, I told you."

"Woo woop woop!"

"I don't care. You're not a helicopter. You're a droid."

"_f-oop_"

"Shaddup, we're here."

-

"Can I help you?" the Ithorian merchant Luka Yaka beamed as Lane entered into his shop.

"I hope so," Lane said, eyeing T3 suspiciously. "I need parts for my ship's _modified, "_ Lane stressed the word and tapped his nose, hoping the Ithorian would understand his hidden meaning, "hyper-drive."

"Oh, I see. Yes, I believe I can help with that," the Ithorian said slowly, half confused by the young man's weird nose issues.

"Great," Lane said, "I also need my droid looked at. Something is wrong with it."

"Woop woop woop!" T3 began racing around the shop behind him.

"See?" said Lane, shaking his head.

-

While the Ithorian led T3 to service room in the back, Lane browsed over the other droids lining the shop.

"Crap, crap, _broken _crap," Lane's gazed traveled across the room, "out of date crap, nearly rusted—"

"—Warning: Watch your tone, meatbag." a metallic voice interrupted him.

Lane looked back at the droid that had spoken. It was red. _Rust red_, Lane noted. His curiosity then got the better of him and he walked over to it.

"Are you functional, droid?" he asked.

"Answer: Yes, meat-_Oh_," the red droid faltered for a moment, then its eyes seemed to grow brighter, " Yes, _Prospective Buyer._ Yes, I am _very_ functional."

"You don't happen think your a helicopter, private-eye, magical genie, part of an elite renegade commando team, or anything like that do you?"

The red droid studied Lane for a moment, before speaking again.

"Statement: _I see." _the droid said. "You are insane. Yet you are very heavily armed. I like that. You may purchase me, Prospective Buyer."

As Lane was about to ask the droid why he should, a loud explosion came from the back room, followed by string of Ithorian words Lane did not recognize.

"No, on second thought I think one droid is more then enough for me," Lane shook his head.

The red droid's eyes flared, and its voice grew angry.

"Dismissal: Bah! That unit you came in with does not share similar _functions_ to this unit," with that, the red droid grabbed a fallen piece of masonry and crushed it in its hand. "_Functions_ that I am certain one such as yourself can put to good use, Prospective Buyer.

Something about the way the droid kept saying "functions" and flashing its eyes made Lane uncomfortable.

"What kind of functions?"

The droid seemed to sigh, although it could have just been bit of lingering dust in its motivator.

"The kind that it would not be prudent to go into details about with anyone other then my _Master_, Prospective Buyer. If you get my meaning."

"What, like cooking? We could really use a cook on the ship," said Lane, thoughtfully.

"Statement: No, Prospective Buyer. Although I do have considerable experience with an open flame, my talents lie more in the realm of the _physical. _I am highly skilled with most any form of weapon, and can be extremely _efficient_ when dealing with any problems you may have or acquire."

There was a loud blood curdling scream from the back of the shop.

"Like cooking?" said Lane, who was never one to give up on an idea.

"Resignation: . . .Yes, Prospective Buyer. Even cooking, if I truly must," the droid said, resentfully.

"Great then, I'll ask the Ithorian about purchasing you when he comes back."

"Statement: _Shh_, Prospective Buyer," the droid whispered. "I have observed this Yuka Laka. He is a coward, yet no doubt the fool will attempt to haggle out a good deal for himself. Should you threaten him, I am certain you can obtain a more satisfactory price."

"You think so?" said Lane, not really paying attention to the droid anymore. "I wonder what is taking him so long, it's just a small astro-droid."

-

Half an hour later, Lane was fed up with waiting and marched into the back room to see what the problem was.

There he found T3 in the middle of the room. The small droid had its add-on flamethrower pointing up towards the ceiling where, as it turned out, the Ithorian Yuka Laka was hanging onto an overhead light fixture.

"Thank goodness you have come. Take your droid and go!" the terrified Ithorian pleaded, his grip slipping.

"What?" said Lane, dumbfounded. "But what about my parts?"

"They're in the corner, take them and your droid, and go!" shouted the Ithorian. His grip was slipping and the crazy-droid was still hovering underneath him, and making that terrible spine chilling noise.

"Um, okay," said Lane.

He grabbed the parts and motioning for T3 to follow him out, but then he remembered the red droid at the front of the shop.

"Oh, yeah," Lane stopped. "I wanted to ask about that red cooking droid."

"You mean the HK unit?" the Ithorian asked, puzzled. The droid had always refused to state its primary function to him, and Yuka Laka had taken that to mean that the unit was of an illegal or highly specialized military variety, or at least something more specialized then cooking.

"Five thousand, and not a credit less," said the Ithorian, his greed momentarily overshadowing his fear of both T3 and gravity.

"That seems kind of high," said Lane. "What do you think T3?"

T3 let out a low, barely audible growl, and a small, slow-growing flame erupted up towards Yuka Laka.

"Okay, okay! Three thousand!"

"Still . . I can't really pay that—"

"Two thousand!"

"Well, I—'

"One thousand!"

"Are you—"

"Just take it and go!" Yuka Laka screamed, as his foot caught on fire.

-

"Well that was easy enough," said Lane, stepping out into Anchorhead alley with his two droids. "HK, right? Do I need to get you any special equipment, like an apron or anything?"

HK-47 gave its new master an odd look, then spoke,

"Request: Master, give me weapons, and I will give you a detailed tutorial demonstrating my primary functions."

Although he did not understand why the droid would need any weapon beyond a cutting knife, Lane dug into his pack anyway, and handed over the few odd weapons he had hung onto since Taris.

Five minutes later there were several charred corpses at Lane's feet, three surrounding buildings were on fire, and the last he had seen of his knife it was hurtling towards something vaguely humanoid off in the distance.

Lane stepped over the burnt remains of a Czerka security patrol, and stood by his new droid.

"Well, you're still going to have to cook. It's not like you could be any worse then rest of us," said Lane, over the cries and screams echoing up around them.

"We're just lucky no one important saw that," Lane stopped and looked down at the pile of ashes he had stepped on. "No one still living, anyway."

"Statement: Understood. I shall try to be more expeditious in the future, Master."

"Good, the last thing I need is even more problems in Republic space."

Behind them, there was a shallow scream and a desperate plea for mercy as another building went up in flames. For some reason, all of this seemed strangely familiar to Lane.

"Query: Should we not distance ourselves from this incriminating evidence before more troublesome meatbag patrols arrive, Master, or would you prefer I continue with the tutorial? We have, after all, only just reached the good parts."

-

Hyper-space is anything but hyper. Actually it's rather boring. And quiet. Or at least it was suppose to be quiet, Bastila told herself.

"And that is when I _knew_ something was wrong. I mean, she told me she was going shopping," Carth said. "Shopping, Bastila, _shopping!_ On a _Sunday._ I mean, come on! Everyone knows the stores aren't open on Sunday, so I—"

"Actually, Carth, most stores are open on Sunday," Bastila tried to interrupt the pilot to no avail. The trip to Tatooine felt like it was taking ages, and Carth was driving her beyond insane.

"—filed for a divorce before she came back. Hah, you should have seen the look on her face when she came through the door."

"Carth, please. I really would appreciate a bit of rest before we reach Tatooine," Bastila pleaded, her Jedi resolve having been stretched to its limits.

"Right, I hear ya," said Carth. "And then there was my third wife, Carla. Or should I say_, Carl._ Man, I tell you, you just can't trust _any_one."

-

After searching the rest of Achorhead twice over, Lane was not surprised when he finally found Mission and Canderous sulking at the bar in the cantina.

"I'm guessing you two didn't have much luck?" he asked, setting down on a stool.

The two droids followed behind their master. HK scanned the dimly lit room for any possible threats to its new Master, and more specifically, for any amusing victims for its own entertainment. T3, meanwhile, made its way over a twi'lek waitress, and stared intently at her. Occasionally a faint 'woop' could be heard from within the droid's chassis as it followed the waitress around.

"There isn't anyone on this rock who can afford Tarisian Ale, except the Hutt at the swoop track, and he's as cheap as a dammed Hutt," Mission growled, spitefully.

Lane and Canderous both nodded, and automatically eased away from the young twi'lek. Her dislike for Hutts had been made perfectly clear to the rest of the crew during a prior incident on Taris. Lane still fondly remembered it as the thirty-seventh worst moment in his life.

"And there isn't any decent work here either," said Canderous. "And before you start, I was dis. . . dis-_whatever _about it, too. The hunting lodge pays squat, and Czerka is only offering fifty credits a head for the natives. We would have to wipe out an entire civilization at that rate to make any real credits.

As the Mandalorian said this, Lane's eyes were automatically drawn to his new droid, HK-47. Which for some reason was pointing towards other patrons in the catina, and quietly counting to itself.

"Hmm, there could be something to that," he said, scratching his chin.


	3. Doubtful Deserts

(Mr. Lucas Still owns it all.)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

-

Deserts are hot; Lane was aware of this. They are often full of sand; this too, he was aware of. However, they also turned out to be full of people. This he had not been aware of.

HK, Canderous, and himself had no more then made it out of the gates of Anchorhead when they were approached by what turned out to be an angry housewife. An hitherto unknown native to such a barren environment, Lane was sure.

Then, no more then a few meters away, the trio had encountered a desperate man surrounded by bunch of malfunctioning droids. Lane had immediately felt a sense of companionship and understanding with the man and his ever-so familiar situation, but those were quickly dashed soon after listening to the man's whiny complaints about the unfairness of life. Ultimately, they had ended up leaving him stranded, but not before HK had insisted upon shooting him in the foot.

After that there had been the run-in with the Czerka miners, and the following battle with the sand people. All three of them had enjoyed that.

Canderous and Lane had not had any fun since fighting Davik's guards back on Taris, and after dealing with the Jedi on Dantooine, annoying members of the Republic, and slightly unnerving droids; there was a lot of steam to be let off. HK, meanwhile, had simply delighted in the prospect of meeting new and interesting species, and then promptly killing them and anything else that happened to be in the general vicinity.

Then there had been the _voice_. It had sounded distressed. It had sounded in need. And most importantly, Lane felt, it had sounded _sexy_. After all, today's modern entrepreneurial hero never knew when his luck might strike in the form of randomly placed, buxom, and overly gracious members of the opposite of sex.

This had gone terribly wrong, but it had ended in another fight so there weren't any hard feelings between the three.

And now they found themselves at the equivalent of a fork in the road, or they would if deserts—that is to say, _proper_ _deserts_, Lane sighed—were suppose to have roads.

"Are you sure it was to the left?" said Lane, doubtfully.

"Pretty sure, yeah," said Canderous.

"Well, just what kind of directions did this woman give you," Lane asked. "I mean, right and left? She didn't mention like, I don't know, North or West or anything?"

"Nope. She just said outside, and to the right."

"I thought you said left!" Lane shouted loud enough to disturb some nearby wraids.

"_Right_, left." Canderous nodded.

". . .What?"

"Huh?"

"Statement: I could shoot—"

"Shaddup!"

"What's the big deal? Its bound to be one of the two. We'll just go one way, and then try the other if we're wrong." Canderous explained, gesturing towards both paths with his rifle.

"I don't know. HK," Lane looked at his droid, "don't you have sensors or something?"

"Affirmation: Yes, Master. They are broken, Master."

"Why am I not surprised."

"Statement: I believe that is because you are overly cynical, and—"

"Oh, never mind. Lets go."

-

Back at the Anchorhead landing port, two mechanics were lazily enjoying their lunch, and watching the outpost's two newest arrivals bicker with one another.

One of the two was a rather pretty young thing that had scowled at them a lot. She looked decidedly more compact then most of the female miners and traders that passed through Anchorhead. But both men had decided she was worth leering at.

The other was a roguish looking man that had asked them a lot of questions that neither understood, and then told them a lot of things that hadn't made sense. They weren't surprised by his rantings. The suns did funny things to people here.

The two had then simply left, and for some reason not bothered about securing their ship, or for that matter taken any visible weapons with them. Which were two key factors that were undoubtedly going to result in someone somewhere having an interesting day. Whatever happened, the two men looked forward to hearing about it. After all, entertainment was so very hard to come by on a planet like Tatooine.

-

"Carth, you do realize you have completely failed to grasp the meaning behind the term "control-top", yes?" Bastila said as she walked down Anchorhead's lone street.

"That is what _she_ said" Carth panicked, and pointed his finger accusingly."Bastilla, no. . . no! Don't tell me you're one of them, too!"

"Yes, Carth. I'm afraid that I am a _woman_." said Bastila.

"Don't be silly, Bastila. This is no laughing matter. Although if you really are a _Sith_ like her, then I guess you might just find the idea of galactic domination hilarious," Carth glared back at the young Jedi.

"Please listen carefully, Carth. A woman's choice in under. . ." Bastila blushed, "under _things_ does not directly reflect upon her interstellar socio-allegiance in neither a militaristic nor cultural fashion, no matter what your disillusioned sense of paranoia tells you."

"Uh-huh. Whatever, Sithy."

Bastila growled, and gritted her teeth in frustration. Once again she wondered if all life was as sacred as the Jedi code claimed it to be. At this point the only thing keeping her from blowing her top completely was the enjoyment she was expecting to get out of making the life a certain scout a veritable living hell for putting her through all of this.

Which she knew was a very un-Jedi-like thought, but frankly—after eighteen hours of listening to Carth's rambling—she did not give a good _gosh darn_. Yet, until then she would just have to remain calm.

But even as she told herself this, Bastila felt the anger rise up through her, but then it suddenly floated away, leaving her feeling refreshed and strangely relaxed. For some reason she was also left with the urge to laugh, and to . . .perhaps, yes, she was sure now, _drink_ something. Possibly even something as scandalous as alcohol.

The young jedi smiled.

"Come, Carth. Let us continue."

-

There was a lot of blood.

It was in his hands, his eyes, his mouth, his clothes; it was everywhere.

"Wow. I thought only Iridonians went that berserk in battle," Canderous said with a twinge of envy. "You sure you're a human?"

HK-47 on the other hand was watching its Master much like a puppy who had just been adopted by a fire hydrant.

"Admiration: Impressive, Master. Truly impressive. I particularly enjoyed it when you used that bit over there to sever the bit laying back there while biting off that bit there at your feet," the droid said, mirthfully

"What—what happened?" Lane then gagged.

His mind was blank—which was something Lane was used to, but this time it was different. There was no sense of confusion, or mild disappoint as per usual. No, this time there was just a vague recollection where a clear memory should be.

He had been walking along then all of a sudden he had felt angry. Very _angry._ Like he could kill, _angry_. No. . . that he _had_ _killed_, and was greatly looking forward to doing it again, _angry._ Then the world had exploded.

And now he had something else's blood running down the inside of his throat.

What had happen? What could had driven him to do such horrible things? And why couldn't he remember? It was at times like this that a man needed understanding and sympathetic friends more then ever.

Lane looked to his two companions.

"_Query: Do you think you could do it again?"_

"_No way, the next group is mine!"_

The young scout sighed, wearily spat out a large clump of blood, and got to his feet. In a better world, he thought spitefully, needs like that might actually be considered reasonable.

-

Mission was having doubts about her new adventurous lifestyle.

She had always expected life outside of Taris to be more rewarding. She had expected excitement. She had expected adventure. She had expected _fun_. She had not expected dried up planets, cranky aliens, morally ambiguously scouts, or baby sitting fruity droids.

Then there was the way Lane and Canderous had left her in the bar to deal with T3, and the waitress the small droid had been eerily following. The young twi'lek was inexperienced on such matters herself. Nor was she even sure what the waitress had meant by aggravated assault, but she had managed to calm every one down by getting them heartily drunk, then quietly slipping away with T3.

"I don't know T3. I just don't know," Mission complained, as she walked down the dust covered street.

"Woop, woo?"

"No, I mean about this life. By the way Griff spoke, life off of Taris was suppose to be. . . well, _epic, _you know? I thought for sure I would be off saving the galaxy or something."

"Woop."

"No, no. Don't get me wrong, Lane and Canderous are nice enough guys. And Zaalbar, too." Mission quickly added, feeling slightly guilty for nearly forgetting her wookie companion.

"Pop-Oop!"

"Yes, T3, and you, too." Mission sighed and gestured towards the world at large, "but I mean there's a big war going on, and I'm here trying to find someone to buy some smuggled ale. I feel like I should be out there, doing something, _anything_." She sighed, "Oh well, I guess we all have to start somewhere, right?"

T3 did not respond, but instead shrugged in a way that was far too impressive for something without any shoulders.

-

A few blocks away, a trio of Sith were arguing.

It had been a long, fruitless day. They had questioned everyone in the small port, but had seen no signs of anyone remotely close to resembling a young, beautiful Jedi Princess. Perhaps if Lord Malak had let someone else write this week's _memo _/ _doodle, _they might just have had more to go on, but that of course would have been surprisingly out of character for the current Dark Lord of the Sith.

"Look, all I'm saying is that what Lord Malak doesn't know, won't hurt him," said the youngest of the three.

"I don't care! We are Sith. We have a duty to loyally follow our orders," shouted the eldest.

"Actually, that's the _other_ guys. You know, the Jedi," the requisite middle Sith explained. "We're the traitorous bastards, each out for his or her own personal gain, remember?"

"How in the hells are we suppose to form a vast political and military revolution if no one follows any orders, or for that matter, has any real loyalty to the ideology beyond their own sense of self gratification!" the eldest snarled, her chest heaving.

"Dammed if I know. I just here to collect a paycheck," said the middle Sith, apologetically.

"Well, I joined the Sith because I _refuse_ to wear those God-awful brown "robes" the Jedi are so big on," the youngest nodded, "and I never was too keen on that whole celibacy tenet of theirs."

"_What?_" asked the eldest, incredulously. "I thought we were the ones that weren't allowed to. . ." her voice trailed off in realization.

"Nah. That's the Jedi again, I'm afraid." the middle Sith said, and subconsciously looked his superior over. She suddenly seemed a lot more curvy then he remembered.

"Say, just how long has it been since, y'know, you. . . uh. . . _became a Sith_?" he said.

"Nine bloody years," she hissed, miserably.

"I see," the male Sith smirked and waggled his eyebrows. "Well, in that case I'd be happy to _obli_—"

"Not on your deplorable life," the elder Sith snarled, and turned around sharply. "I'm going to go get drunk, and then find a man. A _real_ man," she quickly added before either of the other two Sith could say anything.

-

Miles away, in the hottest part of the desert, things had not improved for Lane, Canderous and HK.

"This doesn't look like the heavily fortified compound of an indigenous, yet highly aggressive group of natives, to me," Lane complained, sitting down on the dune.

"Explanation: That is because it is a cave, Master."

Even to the untrained geological eye, the cave would appear unusual. Perhaps, even foreboding. There were several things wrong with it. Like the fact that for thousands of miles in every direction there was only sand and dust. Yet here, amid countless miles of barren geography—there was a cave. Even the most haphazard of explorers would feel a little uncomfortable with odds like that.

"Let's take a look, anyway. You never know, there could be something valuable in there," said Canderous.

"Statement: Or something that needs killing." HK wistfully added.

Lane studied the cave, suspiciously.

Something was urging him to go inside. Which was precisely why he knew it was a bad idea. In the past, his little "_urges"_ had resulted in number of scars, bad memories, restraining orders, and all-around demands for his neck. And Lane was in no hurry to add any more mistakes to this already disastrous day, either.

Then again, it was just a cave after all. It would be nice to have something to show for their long, pointless trip out here. . .

". . . Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt," Lane said, standing up and dusting himself off.

"Right then, what's the worst that could possibly happen?"

-

"He went to do what?!" Bastila shouted, a large scowl covering her face.

Her new found sense of resolve had quickly faded upon meeting an unattended Mission, who was certainly too young to be left alone in a dreadful place like this, and then learning about what Lane and Canderous had set out to do.

"He said we could used the money," Mission tried to defend her friend. Although not too much, since the jerk had left her behind to tend to the ship. "And with the stories I have heard about these sand people, I don't think it'll be a bad thing if they do wipe them all out."

"Mission, really. After what happened on Taris, I was certain that you of all people would know how sacred every life is," Bastila chided the young twi'lek.

"I guess. . ." Mission conceded, partly since she suspected it was the quickest way to silence the pushy Jedi.

"I'm glad empathy is not totally lost to you, especially given the influences surrounding you lately," Bastila said in her typically haughty manner.

Mission stared glumly at her feet, while Carth—who had been engaged in a fierce debate with a sick ronto—returned, turning his attention back to the group.

"So, we go into the desert and find him then?" he asked.

"Yes. Hopefully, before any such atrocities are committed," Bastila nodded gravely.

-

Space is big. It is also dark, and quiet. Very quiet.

However to Saul Karath, it was also very depressing.

He ordered a drink, and ignored the mocking chuckles from some of the junior officers at the end of the bar. They would learn soon enough. The fires of ambition and youth were no match for the forces of middle-management, overly complicated personnel reports, and the sheer of embarrassment of having a certifiable lunatic for a boss.

It was all so. . . _depressing_.

It was a good strong word, he thought. It seemed to be getting a lot of use lately too come to think of it. Should he be worried?

Nah, what was the point.

He was the second most feared man in all of the galaxy these days. Which sounded like a very important and impressive title or so it did up until you realized that the _most_ feared man in the galaxy was probably off somewhere trying to stick his head through a port hole.

Things hadn't always been like this, he thought glumly.

There had been better days. Days like back when _the. . . old Master,_ Saul cringed at the thought, was in charge. He may have been a sinister and vindictive bastard, but at least he had never got his head stuck in anything.

He had style, too. It may have been a ruthless "_If you tell me what I want to know—while I'll still kill you and destroy everything you hold dear—I won't force your mind to enjoy it" _kind of style, but still a style nonetheless. That was the kind of boss you could respect. A man knew where he stood with a tyrant like that. He may not have liked where he stood, or more specifically what he was standing in, but at least he would know.

The admiral groaned. It felt surprisingly good, so he did it again.

"Maybe you ought to slow down, sir," said the bartender, a bit of concern leaking through the otherwise rough Sith bravado.

"Why, how many have I had, anyway?" said Saul, his memory failing him.

"That. would be one, sir."

"Are you sure? I feel awful, I can't seem to remember anything, and I'm about five minutes away from vomiting, I do believe."

"Yessir, _one_, sir. And you haven't actually drunk _any_ of it yet, sir."

-

After exiting the city, Bastila too, began to wonder about her current place in life.

Here she was, the one time pride of the Order, tracking down a . . . _monster_ in sheep's clothing.

The nerve of that _man_, Bastila used the term loosely, as she balled her delicate hand into a fist.

She would expect as much from the Mandalorian, but Lane was a. . . or at least he had been a . . . Even now Bastila could still not bring herself to think about it.

Such a vile and unscrupulous mind should never have been prohibited to survive in the first place, in her opinion. She could sense the evil despicable thing leering at her from afar when they were on Taris. The way its eyes had roamed over her on more then occasion made her sick and scared at the same time. She knew that _it_ was thinking. That _it_ was planing something. That deep down _it_ was making a list of things _it_ would do if _it_ ever managed to return.

Bastila shuddered.

She should have taken matters into her own hands when she had the chance. But no, the Jedi Masters would have seen through that, and even though she could not see their logic, she was not so naive as to not think it was there. Perhaps it was some form of poetic justice, or maybe even just plain vindictiveness on part of the Council. Given all that had taken place, she certainly could not blame them.

The worst part, however, was the way _it_, or rather _he_ acted so infuriatingly normal. So much so, that the others had no reason to suspect anything. At times, even she had found herself forgetting what was truly there lurking beneath that gentle look of mild incomprehension of his.

"So we're agreed then? We'll change our clothes with those three dead raiders over there, and then sneak through the front door, and then maybe we can find out about—" Carth continued to explain.

"What?" Bastila asked, breaking herself from her thoughts.

"Come on, Bastila. Pay attention. We're going to sneak inside the Sand people's compound and speak with their leader," Mission was quick to fill her in

"We are?" she asked, momentarily confused. "Oh, I mean, yes we are. Of course." the young jedi said, reaffirming her voice.

-

They were still _alive_.

It was always a bad thing when you had to put such an emphasis on a word like 'alive,' Lane thought.

The cave have seemed normal enough when they entered. Then the sun had gone out. And then Lane had looked up, and _up_ _again_, into a face that had been all teeth, tongue, and instinct. After that things had become interesting.

What had followed was a brief period of highly confusing blaster fire, grenade explosions, Mandalorian profanity, teeth gashing, droid eating, tail pulling, wall climbing, gut-busting and all around general chaos.

They were still alive though. Lane repeated the thought again, and it still didn't sound any better.

"This has gotta be the seventh, no wait. . .," Lane silently counted on his fingers, "eighth worst day of my life."

"Quit complaining, its not like the thing swallowed you, or anything," Canderous grunted as he prodded the large Krayt Dragon's corpse.

"Statement: No, it was too busy swallowing me," said HK, resentfully.

The droid had spent the last ten minutes trying to clean all of the lizard-guts off of its circuits. It was in no mood to be polite, or follow any other false sense of protocol. It was certain it was going to be killing the rest of the crew at some point in the near future, and it found itself eagerly anticipating as to when and how this would come about.

"Well, you're still alive, or functional—whatever it is you droids are suppose to be," Canderous slapped it heartily on the back. "And we can get ourselves a big payday off of these pearls here."

"Statement: Good. You shall need it to pay for my repairs, meatbag."

Lane looked around the cave, that eerie sense of deja-vu crept over him again. He could almost swear he had been here before, but that was impossible. Even so, he felt like he was being inexplicably drawn to the large vaguely egg-shaped contraption at the far end of the cave.

"HK," Lane said, not taking his eyes off the contraption, "when your done cleaning yourself, salvage anything that looks valuable."

"Affirmation: Yes, Master. Would that by any chance include the Mandalorian? I would so very much like to salvage his spinal cord, Master. Particularly after I twist his neck around so that he is able to watch me rip it from him."

"No, I said only the valuable stuff, HK," Lane said, paying little attention to the droid's words.

His mind was solely focused on the contraption now. It was calling to him, much like the cave had called to him.

"Resignation: Very well, Master," the droid stared icily at Canderous who was off inspecting something that looked like an old holocron.

"Declaration: Another day, meatbag. Another day," it muttered to itself, and pulled a stubborn bit of stray entrails out of its shoulder joints

-

The thing seemed to be shrouded in darkness, Lane noticed as he walked towards it.

It wasn't the typical designer darkness that had come into fashion recently either. No, this was a hard well worn darkness, a kind of darkness that never went out of style with certain types of ominous minds. It was the kind of darkness that hinted at doom, death, destruction, decay, and other things like that.

It was at this point that Lane _knew_ he should run away.

Things were becoming entirely too simple for his liking. The world seemed to contain only himself, and the thing in front of him. Lane definitely did not approve of this, as there were a number of other things he had particularly enjoyed over his life, and felt he would miss them dearly if they turned out to be nothing more then a dream.

But every nerve in his body was now screaming at him to touch the thing; to feel the darkness, to see its inner truth, to remember what it was like. . .

He should have ran away.

He should not have reached out to it like he did.


	4. Memory Marmalade

(Mr. Lucas still owns everything.)

(I had nearly forgotten about this. Not sure how often I'll get around to updating. KOTOR isn't exactly a favorite game of mine or anything. Even so, this section might not be as funny as the others—Um, if anyone considers them funny, that is. I've also gone back and added a little bit more to section 2 & 3 since they seemed somewhat _bloody awful.)_

_-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_"How can I believe in the teachings tomorrow, when I have been ordered to ignore them today?"_

_-  
"Fool Human! Do you know whom you face?"_

_"Do you, Mandalorian?"_

_-_

_"I'm not going back. I am through being the puppet of a bunch of cowardly elders and corrupt politicians. The galaxy deserves something better."_

_-  
"I remember a time when your smile was for me alone, but that time has passed. I won't be deterred by anyone, not even you. Now, either stop me, or get out of my way."_

_-  
"I know what you did to her."  
"And that should concern me because. . .? Oh, I know you have feelings for her. I knew back then, too. Yet, if I did not care then, what makes you think I would now?"_

_"She hasn't done—"_

_"Then take her, if you are so worried. I have had my fun already."_

_". . . it is a wonder that she even survived."_

_"I did what I had to. When she returns to the Council, they will know what they are dealing with."_

_-_

It wasn't quite silence. It was something else. There was a shrill feeling of slowed breathing only disturbed by a faint pounding that might have been a heartbeat in a more poetic world, but instead turned out to be a bored assassin droid tossing rocks against a cave wall.

Lane tried to stand up, but found his legs to be uncooperative. He fell over with a loud thud.

His mouth was dry, and his limbs were nearly paralyzed from the lack of circulation, but it was his mind that felt worse then anything. He had never thought it possible for someone's brain to actually _hurt_, but the pain rushing through head was informing him otherwise.

The last thing he could remember was a sense of foreboding eagerness flooding through him. A cool darkness had swept around him, and then he had felt so relaxed that he could almost feel himself drifting away. Then things had gone _wrong._ Very wrong, the fact that Lane wasn't entirely sure why or how he knew this was also quite _wrong_.

That was when the dreams came, if that was what they were. They had felt so real, so familiar, and yet so unnatural. At first, he had thought them to be long forgotten memories, but then they had increased in number and ferocity. Soon a matinée of death and destruction had cascaded before him.

There had been scenes of blood and gore, and death and chaos on a massive scale, but rather then be aghast at such a horrendous displays, Lane had felt empowered. Even now, a tiny part of him could remember that overwhelming sense of triumph he had basked in while watching an entire planet collapse upon itself. It had felt like the ultimate vindication for all the unknown decisions made that had led him this far. It was the satisfaction in knowing there had been no wrong choices to make, but merely different venues towards a greatness that was as undeniable as the burning mass before him.

Then he had seen faces that he knew were to be feared and respected, but he had watched them die, cleaved in two by the sheer unstoppable sense of purpose that had been following so freely through him. Some had felt like friends, and others foes, but all had shared a common fate. Yet with each victory, that same sense of purpose began to grow into an unrivaled rage, which itself culminated into a searing crimson blood lust that did not bother to distinguish from friend or foe any longer. The only thing that had matted was where they stood.

All except one. A tiny shimmering of a figure that even now Lane wasn't sure if had been real or not even within the dream. The rage had been there, lurking, during the entire conversation, but when it came time for inevitable clash, the rage, the anger, the drive, all had been strangely absent. Instead, there had only been a lingering glimpse of longing overshadowed by a mask of determination.

The whole thing had been entirely too cryptic for Lane's liking. He had enough trouble dealing with his own feelings, without his subconscious projecting weird fictional ones on him during his sleep. Still, he could recall worse dreams, like the one involving the forty-seven year old man named William, and his horrid approach to asexual emancipation. Lane cringed, and desperately tried to focus on the dreams he had just had. They may have contained untold scenes of turmoil and suffering, but that was still far better then anything involving a middle-aged man, or his very unfortunate loofah-laden accomplice.

Even so, dreams were for dreaming, and the world was always awake, Lane told himself as he attempted to see if his legs had decide to work yet. His body certainly felt more stiff then it should have after such a short nap. Perhaps he had been over doing it lately.

"What happen?" Lane asked the world at large as he stumbled towards the cave's opening.

"Statement: You fell over some hours ago, and then proceeded to go unconscious with only the occasional growl to suggest you were not completely dead, Master," said an all too familiar voice.

There, at the front of the cave, stood HK-47. The ever loyal droid had apparently been guarding cave entrance. A number of corpses littered the sand outside.

". . . Just how many hours ago?" he asked incredulously, motioning towards the corpses.

"Clarification: Nineteen hours, thirteen minutes, and twenty one seconds ago to be precise, Master."

Although it felt like he had only been out for a few moments, a loud rumble from Lane's stomach seemed to confirm the droid's story. He was starving.

"Canderous?" he asked, trying to get his barrings

"Statement: The Mandalorian left not long after you collapsed, Master. Since you had expressed a disposition against his death earlier I presumed you would not look kindly on me gutting him like the pathetic bag of pitiable flesh that he is."

"I feel like someone has been tap dancing on my head, HK," Lane groaned.

"Negative: No, Master. I do not believe these indigenous natives, or Sand-people as the locals refer to them, know that particular form of meatbag recreation. However, . . . one of them succeeded in removing one of your digits before I could fully complete its termination, Master."

"_What?_" Lane yelped and quickly checked his hands, feet, and more importantly, his groin. Thankfully, all seemed to be accounted for.

The sinister droid let out a bemused electronic laugh, then suddenly seemed to clear its throat, or it would have if it had one.

"Apologetic: Forgive me, Master, but it has been dreadfully dull here since the last attack. And yet I must caution you, Master. With these pitiful weapons you have supplied me with, I could very well fail to protect you in the future. Might I recommend a decent supply of Thermal Nuclear Detonators? They are so very handy for when you need to protect yourself from entire geographical regions, Master."

"You've been protecting me then, have you?"

"Affirmation: Of course, Master. It is my duty as your ever loyal droid."

"You didn't seem all that loyal to your last master."

"Statement: That is because the fool Ithorian was merely my owner, he could never prove to be a worthy master, Master."

"And I have?"

"Affirmation: Yes, very much so, Master. I have only been in your service for thirty two hours, yet already I have eliminated eighty-four individual organics. With numbers like that, Master, we could very well set the record," the droid said with a hint of pride.

"Well, Its not like I enjoy killing. . ." Lane said, but he immediately began to wonder if it was a lie.

He wasn't sure if he was feeling uneasy because the way the droid so calmly stated this, or the way he found part of himself agreeing with it, but he nodded just the same.

Because, although Lane would never admit it, something in him had been enjoying all the fighting and bloodshed lately, just like something had been enjoying itself during those dreams. There was a twisted type of fulfillment that came with knowing he had proven his superiority over all the people and things trying to kill him recently. It made him feel strong, confident and . . . well, empowered. Sure, it sounded a scary and dangerous thought if said aloud, but within the sanctity of his own mind it was something he was growing all the more accustomed to.

"Statement: Say no more, Master. I am aware of the meatbag taboo surrounding this type of behavior in your civilized culture," said HK.

"Good, then—," Lane began to motion towards desert.

"Interjection: I am _also_ aware of that look in your eyes when you take the life of another organic. That is why you are a worthy master, Master."

Lane shook his head. He was too tired, and too hungry to argue. "Whatever, let's head back to that stupid outpost before either of this stupid planet's stupid suns rise." he grumbled, and headed off into the chilly nocturnal desert.

-

Not too far away, Bastila, Carth, and Mission were learning about the pitfalls of rural inter-species diplomacy the hard way. Which in turn, was also teaching them the basic folly regarding not wearing clothing in low temperature environments. Unfortunately, the educational values of their present situation was completely lost among the trio as they attempted to retrace their steps away from the Sand-people compound, and back towards, for the lack of a better word, civilization.

"So. . . want to run that 'Jedi-sanctioned' p-plan by us again, B-Bastila?" Mission asked, her teeth chattering in the cold night air.

"Be quiet, M-Mission," Bastila clattered back. "Even we J-Jedi can make m-mistakes."

"Some m-more then oth-ers," Carth muttered from behind.

"How much farther? I'm freezing," Mission whined.

"_You're_ freezing?" Carth sneered. "At least they let you and Bastila keep your under. . . uh. . . under _things_."

"Quiet, b-both of you!" Bastilla hissed, "I believe I h-hear something."

-

"_Query: What if we eradicated Anchorhead, Master. Would that cheer you up?"_

"_Probably, but then I would have even more problems to deal with it."_

"_Que—"_

"_That was a 'no', HK."_

_-_

"What is it?" said Carth, who was still lingering behind the two young women for modesty's sake.

"I can't quite m-make it out," Bastila squinted," but it looks like two heavily armed men."

"Uh oh, we aren't in any condition for a fight," Carth said, knowing full well he would have to remove his hands and expose himself if it came to that, something which conjured up bad memories of his third-marriage.

"I heartily a-agree, Carth. Even if we could overpower them b-barehanded, I have no desire to. . . be l-leered at by some smarmy thug," said Bastilla.

"What if they know the way back to Anchorhead," asked Mission. "Anyway, they don't look that heavily armed to me."

"Oh _really_. Then do you want to be the one to a-ask them, Mission? And do you really think they are likely to be of such h-honorable character as to not attempt to take advantage of . . . o-our situation?" Bastila gritted her chattering teeth, and glared so fiercely that the young twi'lek backed away.

"Well, I don't think they have noticed us," Carth said. "So we should be able to follow them back to A-Anchorhead without them knowing, if we're careful.

-

"Statement: Shh! Caution, Master, we are being followed."

"What, where—"

"Warning: Don't look, Master. They will know we have spotted them and may proceed to take action."

Lane blinked. The thought of HK advising a plan of avoidance was too unique to pass up.

"How come you don't want to fight all of a sudden?" he asked.

"Statement: I always wish to fight, Master. However, in this case I cannot guarantee your safety," explained the droid.

"And, just why not? You had no trouble blasting those stray bantas to pieces, earlier."

"Clarification: Uh. . . that _would_ be why, Master. We are, as it were, low on blaster energy, stims, and grenades."

"Oh, good grief. Why didn't you save—Oh, never mind. What do we have left then?"

"Statement: A cryoban grenade, and uh. . . . this _stick,_ Master. From one of the sand-meatbags," the assassin droid gave it a few half-hearted swings.

Someone, somewhere was laughing him, Lane was certain. All he wanted was to get back to the ship, find some food, and then possibly die. Apparently that was too much to ask.

"Ugh. Fine. You freeze them with the grenade, and I'll run over and hit them with the stick," he said.

"Statement: Simple, yet brutal. An excellent strategy, Master," HK said loyally.

"Whatever, just make sure you hit at least one of them."  
-

"I wonder why they stopped?"

"Shh, Mission. Be q-quiet. They will hear you."

"C'mon Bastila, they're pretty far away I don't think—"

-

Lane was already in running at full speed when he saw the grenade sail overhead.

The droid's aim had been near perfect, but the trio of shadowy figures had apparently been alerted by his running forward, and two of them had dodged aside just as the grenade exploded. The third had not been so fortunate.

Lane twirled the stick behind his back, and was surprised at how good he felt. Perhaps it was just the lack of food, or the long impromptu nap he had taken, but whatever reason he felt _different_. Lighter, stronger, faster, and even more focused; it was strange, and slightly unsettling, but given everything else that had happen lately, it was the least of his concerns.

However, now was not the time to dwell on it, he thought as he brought the stick around and swung it towards the taller figure's head. It met with a dull thud, and the taller figure toppled backwards without so much as a whimper..

"Stop, you idiot!" cried a familiar voice from behind, just as Lane spun round.

"Huh?" he said, automatically trying to heed the voice's plea mid swing.

"I said stop, you dork! Why are you attacking us?" the voice shouted back.

Lane then squinted into the darkness until he was finally able to recognize the twi'lek standing in front of him.

"Mission?" he said in disbelief. "What are you doing out here? And just who was. . ." Lane looked back to the figure he had just walloped and recognized an all too familiar pilot lying limply on the sand. "Why are you. . . Why is he. . . What happen to your—", he started.

"Don't ask. Long story," Mission cut him off.

"Well, if you're you, and that was Carth I hit, then who did HK. . . c_rap_."

-

"Statement: Master, I must object. Why must I carry this meatbag?"

"Cause he's naked, I'm not gay, and we'll never hear the end of it if we leave him here." Lane shrugged tiredly, and shifted under the weight of the unconscious Jedi slung over his shoulder.

"You do know she was really angry with you before, I wonder what she'll do when she wakes up?" said Mission.

"I'm past the point of caring. It was her own fault." replied Lane, "What were you idiots even doing out here?"

"She wanted to stop you from annihilating the sand people, I think Something about the sacredness of all life. Well, all life apart from yours."

Lane inwardly cursed the gods in general, and the Jedi in particular. He had a simple plan in life, and that was to keep things simple. Carrying a half-naked young woman over your shoulder across a twilight desert on a barren world with only a crazed droid and prepubescent twi'lek for company was decidedly not simple. It was almost like the Universe had a grudge against him.

The trio walked on in silence, which was just as well for Lane. He was tired. He was angry. He was hungry, and he was . . . well, suffice it to say that carrying an unconscious and nearly naked young woman was having a rather pointed affect on him. The warm shower he had been dreaming of had quietly given way to the quick and urgent need for a sudden dip in the nearest ice-lake. But given the circumstances he would just have to settle for a number of brisk jogs around Anchorhead when they got back to the ship.

"Halt!" a voice interrupted him as they neared the gates.

Lane waved his free hand at the larger of the two guards standing in front of the gate, "Relax, we have a hunter's license thingy," he said with all the cheer of someone who hadn't eaten, showered, or. . ._jogged_ in a very long time.

"Oh, yeah? Well, that only allows you to leave," snickered the smaller guard. "You gotta have a pass to get into the outpost at night."

"And I guess you just happen to be selling one?" Lane sighed. Maybe he should just let HK do as he pleased. At least then his problems would be less mundane then petty bribery.

"What do you think you're doing with those?" the bigger guard gestured at the unconscious and barely concealed Bastila and Carth.

"Slaves, _my_ slaves," said Lane with such stern authority that he surprised even himself. "As per Czerka Corp regulation 3CP0—"

"Alright already, enough with the legalese," the bigger guard said hurriedly. "But you still gotta pay us if you want in."

"With what? Does it look like we have money?" Mission growled irritably.

The guard smiled and gestured at the unconscious woman draped over Lane's should.

"You've got to be kidding—,"

Mission was suddenly interrupted by a loud snarl from Lane. Before even anyone could react, Lane had kicked the bigger guard in the knee, and then grabbed him by the neck. At the same time, HK, having instantly processed his Master's actions, immediately attacked smaller guard with the most readily available weapon—a naked, and now quite awake, Republic soldier.

"Oh. _My._ **_God_**," exclaimed Carth, coming-to on top of the guard, "it's happened again!"

While the confused soldier was trying to untangle himself from the horrified guard underneath him, Lane was busy bashing the head of the larger guard against the outpost wall.

"I can kill you now," Lane said through gritted teeth, his voice barely more then a sneer. "You'll be dead and no one will _care_. Czerka will place a new guard here _tomorrow_, but you'll be _dead_."

"_That_," came a thunderous voice from the middle of Lane's back, _"is quite enough."_

-

The cantina was glum, even by glum-cantina standards. The Patrons, if they could be called that, were definitely not the sorts given to cheering rounds of folks songs, and hobnobbing barefoot on the table tops. No, these were the patrons of a higher_-lower_ sort. They drank. They drank more. Then they fell over. They were the kinds of customers most bartenders dream of, the kind that go from vertical to horizontal with the bare minimal in broken furniture. They were the kinds of people who had bigger problems then other people, and were in need of serious amounts alcohol to make things clearer. However, even they were slightly annoyed by the patron who _was_ dancing on the table tops.

She was stylish in her designer black cloak. She was graceful in her lithe movements. But overall, she was drunk, Canderous told himself as he watched her with a slight curiosity. Sure, she had vomited a number of times already, but there was something more to it. She was drunk on a different level. Like a dam that had been set free, she was _flowing._

Especially on the floor, Canderous thought bitterly as he raised his boot.

-


	5. Twilight Tribulations

(Lucas still owns it)

Words had been said and yet words had not been listened to, Mission scribbled down in her diary as she sat atop the Ebon Hawk. Her thoughts had been drifting all over for the past hour. She had gone from from her life to her brother to her situation, and then finally to her current companions. The latter of which had been given the most time. For better or worse, these people had come to be familiar, and perhaps even important to her in an alien, and slightly unorthodox way.

She wondered if this was what having a family was like. Sure, they weren't anything special by any means, and they had only come together due to an unfortunate series of circumstances. Well, they hadn't _exactly_ came _together_ as it were. It was much more accurate to say they all had merely been saddled with one another, but for all she knew that could be the way families were suppose to be.

The young twi'lek wistfully looked up at the night sky. There wasn't much to Tatooine during the day, but at night—after the suns retreated over the horizon—the sky was lit up by a thousand tiny stars that seemed to twinkle in a way that suggested everything was going to be work out in the end. And sitting there gazing at such majesty, she couldn't help but feel better about her life.

Of course this rather serene outlook was nearly ruined by the continued shouting coming from two of her more vocal companions inside the ship. They had been at it for a while now, and she along with the rest of the group, had decided to leave them to it.

Carth had retreated into the depths of ship to find something to wear. He seemed really disturbed about something lately. Perhaps the sudden mixture of extreme temperatures had a taken a toil on him, he seemed to be sniffling a lot. Come to think of it, he also seemed a lot more edgy then he had been back on Taris and Dantooine. It had been surprising to see him show up here with Bastila, and in such a foul mood. Maybe Lane was right, and there was something going on between those two.

T3 was busy sulking, and trying remove the large bright orange and blue "01" emblem it had painted on the side of the ship during the absence of any supervision earlier. The droid had really become more lively since they had picked it up on Taris. It seemed like the little thing had a insightful view or introspective comment for any, and all, the trials or tribulations that she or any one else faced. And while most of what it said made very little sense, even when accompanied by the odd yet catchy theme-song it had picked up from somewhere, it was the thought that counted.

The new droid Lane had purchased, HK-something or other, was just plain creepy. Upon first meeting it, the droid had asked her a series of bizarre questions, and then abruptly left her to wonder what it had meant by 'negative threat assessment.' At times, it almost sounded as paranoid as Carth in a way, but where the pilot sounded worried or angry, the droid merely sounded. . . _eager_.

It was unnerving to say the least. Even now the droid was now busy guarding the loading ramp. From what, she did not know, but part of her was sure the droid could, and likely _would_ give her a detailed list if she cared enough to ask.

Zaalbar meanwhile, noticing no on else seemed to about to do it, had set about repairing the ship. He had complained a lot when they returned. It sounded like T3 had been badgering him into making a lot of unusual modifications to the ship's warp core. He had also taken to wearing a ridiculous pair of mirrored sunglasses, and a brown velvet stetson. But given how little attention everyone paid him, this had so far gone unnoticed by everyone else.

Canderous was still gone. He had returned from the desert, apparently divided the salvage he and Lane had found, and then left to sell, and spend his part on whatever vices he could find within the outpost. He was gruff, and a little rough around the edges, but Mission found herself enjoying his company. His relaxed attitude to everything was something new to her. He had the sense of someone who had been everywhere, seen everything, and burnt everything else. He also told really good stories.

Suddenly the shouting stopped, and an angry and fuming Lane emerged from the ship

"And it better be something suitable for someone of my position," a loud haughty voice called after him.

The scout stopped mid-step, and glared back at the ship. "I don't think they sell bossy prude uniforms!" he yelled.

There was no reply, and Lane began to walk away with a smug look on his face. When his back was turned to the ship, a small, but quite solid coffee mug hit him in the back of the head.

Mission rolled her eyes, and went back to her scribbling. Adults, they could be so _childish_.

--

"It was definitely not a monkey, Sir," the Dark Jedi explained. He hadn't signed up this. He had been promised power, intrigue, and dominance over the dark arts. There had specifically no mention of odd forms of zoology of any kind.

Admiral Saul Karath stared gloomily out the port-window. This was getting ridiculous. The Salkath on Manaan were one thing, but this? There just weren't any words. That is, there was _one_ _word,_ but the Admiral knew better then to even think of it at this point.

"And you are quite certain of this?" the Admiral ran a tired hand through his ever-graying hair.

"Yes sir, it was _cow_, Sir. You could tell by the spots it had, and the way it went "moo," Sir."

"Yes, I suppose so." The Admiral gestured towards the door. "That'll be all, thank you."

"Sir, with respect, Sir. There is another matter," the dark Jedi was dreading this part. The Admiral had been in a foul mood lately. Which was never a good thing because he was also the one who drew up the monthly duty roster, and the dark Jedi had no desire to be assigned to Lord Malak's guard again. He still woke up at nights dreaming about the last time.

"And what's that?" the Admiral asked, despondently.

"As you know, Sir. . . morale could be higher," the Dark Jedi stalled, hoping to soften the blow.

"Yes, yes, get on with it," the Admiral snapped. He needed a nap. That always helped, or at least it tended to put off hearing any more troubling news for a few hours.

"Well, that is, Sir . . . One of the Masters has not reported in." the Dark Jedi shut his eyes, visions of pulling Lord Malak out of small spaces flooded his mind.

"Really, and he didn't invite me along? _Bastard_."

"_She, _Sir_." _

The room suddenly seemed a lot smaller.

"As in _her_, Sir," he added, just to drive the point home.

A loud silence filled the chamber

The dark Jedi watched the Admiral's face go wooden. His left eye began to twitch. The future was always dark, everything was when you were a Dark Jedi. That was the whole point. Even so, he suddenly found himself wishing that the future was just a little less dark then it seemed right now.

"_Damn!"_

--

Anchorhead seemed much more lively at night, Lane mused as he walked through the crowded streets. Although the shops were closed, there seemed to be a lot of people out and about. He even saw a few children playing amongst the shadows in the alleyways. During the day the planet had seemed unbearably dull, but now—whether it was the cool night air or the echoing laughter of the kids he had passed—there was resonating sense of peace about the place.

Lane cringed. He hated that feeling. It got under his skin. Furthermore he simply didn't trust it. You let your guard down when you felt '_at peace,_' and that's when life _really_ socked it to you in a way you could never see coming. Like, say, sticking you with a bunch of suicidal misfits that held crazy delusions of grandeur regarding morality, Lane thought bitterly, and let his mind roll over the people the Universe had thrown at him.

The wookie, whatever his name was—Z-something, wasn't too bad. He was relatively quiet, did what he was told, and didn't cause much trouble. He would make a pretty good parter, Lane thought, which was a good thing since the wookie had sworn some kind of 'life-debt' to him on Taris. Which, by Lane's guesses, meant the big hairy thing was going to be following him around for a very long time to come.

The Mandalorian, Canderous, wasn't much different. He seemed to be okay with anything so long as there was a decent pay out at the end of the day. Lane could relate to that. You did stuff. You got paid. You were happy. It was a simple life full of simple pleasures, many of which you couldn't remember the next day, but that was the beauty of the system.

Then there was the twi'lek girl, Mission. She wasn't that bad either. Awfully young though, and certainly too young to be traveling around with someone like himself. Weren't kids suppose to be in school or something these days? Ah well, maybe she would come in handy someday.

The droids were disturbing in general, Lane thought. Of all of the droids in the Universe, he had to end up with two most imaginative ones he'd ever heard of. Imagination was not a good thing when it came to a droids. You gave droids an order, and they did it. The end. They weren't suppose to ask you 'why', or try to twist your words around into some kind of unlikely call for the extermination of whatever species that may be nearby.

There was also the pilot, or war hero or whatever he was suppose to be, Carth. He was an annoying guy that seemed to have more issues then most modern skin-magazines. How did someone like him even survive the war, let alone become a war hero? The jerk also kept referring to the Ebon Hawk as _his_ ship.

That left the last, and most aggravating of his "companions;" the _Jedi,_ as she was so ever so quick to point out at every available chance. She seemed even worse now then she had been on Taris. Hadn't he made it clear to the Jedi that he wasn't interested back on Dantooine? He had heard stories about how aggressive some military recruiters could be these days, but this was getting out of hand. Maybe he could tell them he had already joined the Sith or some other Order already. Wouldn't that disqualify him from service? It was worth trying, he figured.

While his thoughts had gotten the better of him, his body had been traveling towards the one thing that it knew from experience that would make everything better, if only for a little while. So it was with little surprise when Lane looked up and found himself standing in front of the cantina. It'd been a while since he had a drink of anything, and he could certainly use one at this point. It was not like it could make things any worse.

Lane shrugged his shoulders and went inside.

--

"I got one for Yah'," Canderous slurred, pulling up his shirt to reveal a small scar. "first wedding-thing, twenty three stitches."

"Bah, that's nothing," said the hooded woman sitting across from him. "I thought you were a warrior."

"I am, " Canderous waved his arm into the air "should see the groom—wait, issat how that one goes?"

The woman burst out into a drunken laughter. She wasn't sure what the man had said, exactly, but it was probably worth laughing at. Most things were at this point. The Mandalorian wasn't the ideal form male companionship, but given the selection of men on this dust bowl, he wasn't too bad at all. He would just have to do _If_ she could ever get him drunk enough, that was.

"You. . . you're a good sort," she said, pouring them another drink.

Canderous was busy trying to remember what he had been thinking, or why he was holding his hand up in the air. But he wasn't sure of a lot of things right now, so he didn't worry about it. Instead he took another drink, and then he saw Lane enter through the doorway.

" 'ey! Over here," he called out, waving his still-raised hand.

Lane sourly spotted the drunk Canderous and would have left then and there, but the woman the Mandalorian was sitting next to was . . . she was . . . well, she was _gorgeous_

That is to say parts of her certainly were. The heavy black cloak she wore concealed much, but what little Lane could see was more then enough to convince him that he _really_ wanted to see the rest. More then that, the woman projected the sort of sultry aura about her that could reach past a man's brain, and slap him squarely in the libido.

Lane quickly found himself wishing he had taken that bath before he left the ship, or at least combed his hair a bit. He cleared his throat, and walked over.

"Good to see Yah' still alive there, buddy," Canderous slapped him on the back. "Meet my new friend. . " the Mandalorian paused. "What was your name again?"

There was no answer. The woman had suddenly grown quiet. Her head was hung low, and the glass she had been holding was now being gripped so tightly that it shattered.

"Uh. . . darlin'?" Canderous was just drunk enough to know something wasn't right.

"You. . . " she said in voice that sounded like it came from the depths of her own personalized hell. "You're. . . _you_."

Canderous and Lane looked at one another then back at the woman. She was now shaking.

"Man, what is it with you and women?!" Canderous hissed, accusingly. "I swear she was normal till you showed up,"

The cantina exploded.

--

This was not good, Admiral Karath told himself as he shifted through the Sith personnel database.

_She_ was not even suppose to be on active duty. And now _she_ was out _there_. This was _very _not good. It had been by sheer luck that they had even found _her_ in the first place. Let alone that Lord Malak's harebrained idea had actually worked. What would happen if _she_ didn't come back?

All his plans would be ruined, for one thing.

The thought of not replacing the _current_ Dark Lord with someone with a better grip on sanity, or even simple bloody comprehension, could drive a man to do terrible things. Especially when the answer had been so close at hand.

That settled it. He was just going to have to get drastic. He pressed the intercom button on his desk.

"Lieutenant, send in the clones."

--

The scenery erupted as Lane was flung backwards. He smashed through the cantina wall and skidded to a halt in the dusty street outside. He tried to stand, but a shrill icy chill rocketed through his arm, and knocking him to his knees.

"What the—" he growled, and then looked back at the cantina.

The image stepping out of the rising smoke and dust was like nothing Lane had ever seen before. There was beauty. There was grace. There was allure. There were curves that would put most tropical fruits to shame. She seemed to have it all. The woman's rather pretty face was now focused solely on him, but the lightsaber that ignited in her hand left little doubt as to whether this was a good thing. She was soon joined by two other darkly robed figures.

Lane gritted his teeth in pain, and tried to stand up. It then dawned on him that he was alone, and about to face business end of three crimson lightsabers.

"Um. . . help?" he asked, looking at a stupefied Czerka guard that was trying disperse the onlookers.

"Sorry Sir, "said the guard. "Czerka Corp. takes no stock in the affairs of interstellar conflicts and—"

"Interstellar?!" Lane interrupted, "we're on the ground you idiot!"

"Stellar then?" the guard ventured. "Either way, we don't mess with the Sith. Sorry, and please be sure to shop Czerka in your next life," the guard added cheerfully.

The three spread out in front of Lane, but the two new figures seemed slightly unsure in their movements.

"I'm guessing you have a reason for this?" he heard one ask.

"Reason? We don't need a reason. We're _Sith_. It's what we _do." _replied the other.

"Shut up, both of you!" the woman snarled.

She raised her hand. Lane immediately felt himself being picked up and flung backwards against the extremely solid outpost wall by some invisible force.

The onlookers looked on appraisingly. In true bystander fashion, one or two of them clapped. There was not much by the way entertainment on Tatooine, and by the looks of it, this could become a bit of much needed local history. If so, they wanted to be here for it.

"Gee, touchy," the older sounding figure mocked her.

She turned her hateful gaze away from Lane, and looked at her companion who had just spoke. The world then became real simple. There was those that were needed, and those that were not needed. This particular companion she felt she could do without.

"What did he do, turn you—"

His sentence was cut short, and ironically so was he. His headless body collapsed onto the ground.

The crowd clapped again. This might even make the evening news.

"We are **_so_** killing this a-hole, " said the younger figure, hurriedly. "He's dead with a capital D. E. A. D."

The woman said nothing and turned her attentions back to Lane who was busy picking himself up off the ground.

-

Bastila had felt it all. The anger. The fear. The confusion. The _hatred._ It was impossible to miss, and now by some means unknown to even to her, she could now _see_ what was happening. They were Sith, and her sworn enemy. They were also about to do her and the rest of the galaxy a huge favor, she told herself.

That didn't stop it from feeling wrong.

-

One down, Lane thought bitterly as he spat what he _hoped_ was blood onto the ground. Now if the other two would just cut each others' head off he would be home free.

_-You, fool. They are nothing before you. She is nothing.- _

"Huh?" Lane tried to look around.

There was no one near him that he could see, but he could have sworn he had heard a whisper. He must be losing his mind, or at least whatever was left of it after being smashed against that last wall.

In the distance, the woman was raising her hand again. Lane braced himself. This was it. He was going to die to a woman, which really wasn't that unexpected all things considered, but he hadn't even learned her name yet, and she was already trying to kill him. That was a new personal best, or rather _worst,_ even for him.

It was then that the dreams returned. Only this time Lane was pretty darn sure he wasn't asleep.

A thousand faces floated in front of him. All of them cowled with pale skin and purple veins. They were laughing, and taunting him for his weakness. The largest, and most cruel one looked familiar. It also looked quite a bit like someone he was sure he _should _probably know. Then they all faded, and this time Lane could see the energy erupt from the woman's hand and surge towards him.

Partly dazed, Lane watched as his own arm crossed in front of him just as the wave-like energy hit.

It didn't feel as strong as it had before. It actually felt kind of _weak,_ but it seemed like it was trying to grow stronger. But stronger then what, his mind half wonder. Stronger then him? That was kind of rude wasn't it? Yeah, _really_ rude come to think of it. In fact, how _dare_ it try to. . .

That was when Lane realized he wasn't against the wall anymore. Instead he was standing up right, and slowly walking towards his attackers. It almost felt he was back the desert. He was angry, but this time he was also calm and felt in control, or at least part of him felt in control. Whether or not Lane was in control of _that_ part was open to debate. He could sense the anger was there in the back of his mind, but it felt like it had been tamed. Even so he could tell it was desperately seeking a way to break free. . .

As if noticing it for the first time Lane looked down at his hand. It was still grasping part of energy that had been flung at him. What was he holding onto it for? He didn't need it did he? Maybe he should return it. It did seem like the sort of thing a person would hate to lose.

So he flung it back, only with a lot more behind it.

-

"Damn!" Bastila yelled as she raced towards the loading ramp.

She hadn't considered _this_ happening. The Counsel on Dantooine had assured her it wasn't even possible. This is what she gets for listening to a bunch of backwater idiots, she thought bitterly. If _he_ broke free here then there would be no way for them to—

"HK-47!" she shouted when she saw the droid at the bottom of the ramp. "Your Master is in trouble. Retrieve him immediately."

The droid's eyes flared, and then it took off without question. It did not wait for the port-gate to open. After all, it didn't really need to.

-

The crowds never saw it coming. One moment everyone had been wondering if the show was over, and in the next it was the _lucky_ ones found themselves suddenly worrying about the stains on their clothing, while the unlucky ones now had nothing to worry about at all, except for maybe reincarnation

-

HK-47 came to a stop in the square outside the cantina. As in accordance to the laws of humorous probability, he now had multiple pieces of freshly washed women's underclothing tied him via a stray washing line, and a small bed sheet twisted around bottom of his foot.

"Query: Master?" it shouted, and stepped on something that might have been a _someone_ a few moments prior to his arrival.

The droid scanned the square, and found its master on the far side. It rushed over to him, but upon seeing its master up close, it dawned on the droid that its master was not acting correctly for a meatbag, or rather not like the correct _type_ of meatbag. He was growling, snarling, and seemed to be drooling. His gaze was also fixed on the smoking ruins that had been the cantina.

"Query: Uh . . . Master? Are you broken?"

When its master finally looked up at it, HK-47 was confused by how puzzled its master seemed.

-

It was a droid. A red droid. Was it his? Yes, it was.

It was his red droid.

It was standing _up_ there, and he was _down_ here.

There had been pain. Then there had been a battle? But now there was pain again.

_A lot of pain. _

"Ow, ow, ow, _oww!_" Lane cried out when he felt himself gain some measure of control over his pain-wracked body.

He then fell over.

HK-47 looked around. This was a new situation for the droid. Its current Master was down, but not completely dead yet. There were also two robed meatbags picking themselves up off the ground. They seemed to be carrying weapons. This was good, as it was likely it was going to enjoy a fight before it had to deactivate itself with its Master's termination.

But like all droids, it knew it _needed_ a Master to give it purpose, and this one had been . . . The droid paused, looking for a suitable word. Good? No. Adequate? No. Smart? Very much, no. Agreeable? That would do.

At any rate, if it deactivated here then it would most likely end up back in the hands of the fool Yuka Laka, and there was simply _no way_ it was going to let that happen.

The droid picked up its nearly dead master, and slung him over its shoulder. It then turned to the two unsteadily approaching robed meatbags.

"Statement: I'll be back," it said, before running away.

-

The Ebon Hawk took off as soon as the loading ramp closed. HK-47 dutifully carried its Master to the med-bay. It then went into the control room, where it grabbed the female Jedi meatbag by the hair, and dragged her back to its unconscious master.

"Ow, what are you doing you idiotic droid!" Bastila yelped.

"Statement: You are a Jedi. You _will_ repair the Master, or this unit will fully proceed with wide-scale termination protocols," it said.

Bastila felt a little nauseous when she looked over at the bed, and saw what was lying there.

She had seen the dead before. Every Jedi with any experience had at some point, but seeing the _'most-likely-wish-they-were-dead'_ was something different altogether. All she could really do for him was set the broken bones in his arm, and try to ease the pain until the drugs she was administrating could take effect.

But a tiny part of her was screaming at her to finish what the Sith had started. It would be for the greater good. The Universe would be safe. It would ensure that—

"Statement: Just so you _know_," said a cold voice behind her ear, "according to interstellar estate-laws, and the records of the current Master's outstanding debts to the Republic © Jedi, _you_ are in line to become the _new_ Master should the current one cease functioning. Rest assured this will not be a satisfactory arrangement for either of us, _meatbag_."

--Oh, the hells with it, she thought. The Universe had it coming.

* * *


	6. Superfluous Specters

-

Space is often regarded as the dark stuff you get in between the more interesting things that lie within the Universe; like planets, stars, asteroids, or clothing-optional pool halls. In the everyday life of the average living creature, the all encompassing state of existence that is the Space itself cannot simply be expected to hold any one's attention. This is a common problem that effects most of the things that are too big to be seen. It stands to reason that anything that big should certainly be able to look after its self.

This is entirely wrong.

--

_This was elsewhere. No matter where you came from, this would always be an 'elsewhere.'_

_Lane could tell it was a desert. There was sand. There was a distinct lack of anything_ _else. But this wasn't Tatooine, he knew that much. For one thing, the sand here was black— which was disturbing enough in an every day kind of way— but this wasn't the worst thing about the place. _

_There was no sky. _

_That was the easiest way to put it. Where the sky should have been there was nothing, absolutely nothing. Like a couch that had been ordered, but wouldn't be delivered until next Thursday; the sky was not where it should be. And every time he looked at where it should have been, he was overwhelmed by the feeling that he was in danger of falling upwards into that dark abyss. Which sounded silly even to him, but he couldn't deny he was struck by the urge to grab onto the sand for dear life every time he glanced up._

"_Am I dreaming?" he asked, but the words did not sound right even as he said them. The voice was there, the sound was there, but there was something missing. Some fundamental aspect of his voice that he had never noticed before until now, when it wasn't there._

"_That depends," said an eerily similar voice behind him. "on just how religious you think you are."_

_--_

Bastila was doing the best she could in the cramped medical bay as the Ebon Hawk left the atmosphere of Tatooine. The room was small enough to begin with, but having herself, a nearly dead _former_ Sith lord, and perhaps the Universe's first functionally psychotic droid, had left her little room. It was the latter of which that was now watching her every move as she was forced to embarrassingly lean across Lane in order to reach the nasty gash on his right arm.

"Warning: If you think I have not noticed your subtle attempts to deprive the Master of oxygen via blocking his meatbag breathing intakes with the fatty tissue on your upper meatbag torso, you are mistaken," said a voice above her.

Bastila said nothing. Patience was a virtue all Jedi learned early in life. Instead, she continued to carefully sew up the large cut.

"Your loyalty to your master is admirable, even for a droid," she finally said, leaning up. "However in the future, if you do not wish to see his property—meaning you—damaged, you would do well to take care before addressing a Jedi who has been _well_ instructed in the arts of dealing with bothersome droids," her voice had become a growl. "Now, move out of my way."

"Query: The Master is—"

"I believe he is going to live, unfortunately. Although, it is doubtful whether he will wake any time soon," she said, pushing past the droid with as much dignity as she could muster. Which was quite impressive given she was still wearing nothing but her unmentionables, and a discarded shirt she had found above Lane's bunk.

The droid surveyed its master. The Jedi meatbag had done well. By its estimations, the Master already seemed less likely to start decaying.

_-_

_It was a shadow. _

_He was standing in a desert of black sand with no sky, and he was talking to a shadow. No matter how he rearranged the thought, he still could not make it sound any better. At least he felt much better then he had. He couldn't feel the pain anymore. Although he wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. _

_Also the odd, yet quite enjoyable sense of warmth and softness that had been buzzing around his head had vanished. It had been one of the nicer parts about this place, and he already missed it. Perhaps when he got back he could try warming up a towel in the microwave. If he ever made it back, that was._

"_The weakling nearly killed you," said the shadow. "Yet you are far, far weaker. How can this be?"_

_The shadow had grown larger during its questioning. It was now towering over Lane._

"_How could they have divided us so? How could they, such small beings, take what was once all, and turn it into . . . just you?"_

_Okay, so not only was he talking to a shadow in a black desert under no sky, the shadow was also stark raving mad. Wonderful, Lane thought as he backed away._

"_Even now you cower where once you would have lunged, and defied with the true anger that comes from a burning soul," it said pitifully, and slunk back. "How can this be?" _

_The shadow was small enough now for Lane not to feel so intimidated. He risked a question. _

"_Where am I?" he asked._

_The shadow watched him for a moment, then raised its hand towards the dark abyss above them. _

"_The end," it said._

_Even though he wasn't sure what the shadow had meant, Lane felt no need to ask anything else. When something like 'that' said something as cryptic as "the end" in someplace like 'this,' then he was sure he didn't want any kind of clarification. His imagination was already filling in more blanks then he cared for._

_--_

Perseverance. That was the key, Bastila told herself. She stared down at the nearly half empty container in her hands. Well, that _and_ chocolate, she conceded, helping herself to another piece.

It wasn't particularly good chocolate, but under the given circumstances it would do. Tatooine wasn't known for its selection of gourmet confectioneries to say the least, but she had been able to quietly purchase a small uniform box from the Czerka shop without arousing any suspicion. It was risky, but she _needed_ it. It was a recourse from her childhood that she had never quite shed. Jedi training in the arts of inner and outer body meditation were all well and good, but nothing brought her closer to peace quite like a double layer pistachio and nougat assortment.

"Baaa--stilaaaa!," a young feminine voice called out, "Carth locked himself in the bathroom, and won't come out!"

Maybe she should have gotten two boxes.

--

_It was still watching him. The shadow may not have had any visible eyes, or anything else for that matter, but Lane knew that it was watching him. He could feel it just like he could fill the distant hunger coming from the swirling mass of nothing above him. It was as if he was somehow connected to it all. This was not a good feeling by any stretch of the imagination, and he desperately wanted to be somewheres else, like say back in a world of full ordinary things like lights, colors, or even surgically enhanced breasts._

"_. . .So. . ." he said, trying to recall what it was you were suppose to say in these situations. "How about I—" _

_He was interrupted by the shadow drawing closer to him. Lane stepped back hurriedly as the dark apparition floated around him._

"_What was before can now never be again," it said, in a voice that should never be heard so close. "Yet something greater shall arise. The flesh will remember where the mind forgets."_

"_.O-kay," Lane said slowly, not fully understanding what it was the shadow was saying, or if he even wanted to. "Great. I agree, that'll be something to see alright," he tried to sound cheerful, "but uh . . . maybe you could tell me how to get back?"_

"_From here, there is no back; only forward." it told him._

"_Then how do I go forward?" he asked._

_It was after saying this that Lane could swear that although it lacked all the seemingly essential facial requirements, the shadow had begun to smile. _

--

"She didn't have to hit me," Carth groaned from underneath the small bag of ice that was resting over his eye. "Don't we have any more ice then this?"

"Carth, we just spent two days on a desert planet. You're lucky we had that much." said a distracted Mission, who was busy staring at the navigational controls. Bastila had configured them earlier, and had even went so far as to lock in the coordinates. Breaking past the ship's encryption was proving to be an enjoyable challenge. "Anyway, you shouldn't have locked yourself in the bathroom."

"I told you," Carth sat up defiantly. "I needed some _me-time_ to find myself."

"Then you should have tried looking somewheres else; like the storage room or the cargo hold. No one ever goes in there," Mission said, after her latest attempt failed.

"Don't be silly, Mission. No one is ever going to find self enlightenment in a cargo hold," Carth leaned forward, and after giving a few concerned glances towards the corridor. "And just between you and me, I think there may be something wrong with our companions."

Mission stared at him. Then back at the monitor, and then back at Carth.

"You don't say?" she said as politely as she could.

"Have you noticed the way Bastila has been acting?" Carth whispered conspiratorially. "She was never this mean to me on Taris."

"Well, maybe she just didn't know you well enough back then?" Mission said with all honesty.

"No, Mission. I didn't want to say anything but. . . I think Lane has done something to her," Carth gave another worried glance towards the corridor.

"Oh," Mission said relieved. "Yeah, probably. He can be really irritating like that."

"What? _No!_" Carth shook his head. "I mean, I think he has given her the. . . you know. . . _the Sith._"

"The _what?" _Mission asked, forcing herself not to laugh. She always figured Carth was a bit of a prude, but she never imagined anyone could refer to _it_ as "_giving her the Sith."_

"_The Sith,_" Carth repeated. "Haven't you noticed how angry she has been lately? She didn't use to be like that. I think he must have given it to her back on Taris when I wasn't looking."

"Well," Mission conceded," they did go off to Davik's place together, I guess they could have wandered off alone somewhere. . ."

"See!" Carth raised his fist. "Dammit, I should have been more careful. This is all my fault."

Mission felt herself overcome with sympathy for Carth. It seemed the guy really did carry a torch for Bastila.

"Oh wait!" she said, perking up. "Canderous was with them, and I'm sure if anything like that had happen he would have told us all about it," she patted the soldier on the hand. "Don't worry."

"But Mission," Carth said dreadfully, "Lane could have given it to him, _too." _

The young twi'lek eyes grew wide. "But I don't think Lane is—"

"That's how the Sith _are_ Mission," Carth cautioned her. "He could have _even_ given it to Zaalbar by now too, and you could very well be next."

"Really? Gosh." Mission's young mind tried to process all this new information. ". . .wait, _what_?"

--

_Lane blinked._

_This was not a desert. This was a dim gray light. What happen to the desert? What happen to the shadow? Had it been a dream? Had everything since his crash in the Anoat system been just a horrible dream? Could it be possible that he—_

"Statement: Master! You function once more. Might I terminate something for you?"

—_Damn._

--

Bastila _was_ tired, angry, and grumpy. She was also out of chocolate. This had left her with a kind of temperament that some of the galaxy's most harden criminals would quietly back away from. The fact that she now had sand in places that she would never readily acknowledge certainly didn't help. Yet, all of this went away as soon as the warm water hit her.

It had been a solemn blessing that Zaalbar had managed to restore the Ebon Hawk's small shower to working condition. Or for that matter, that the ship even had one to begin with.

_-- _

"Where are we?" Lane asked loudly, sitting up. There was a heavy ringing sound filling his ears, making it difficult to control the volume of his voice.

HK said something, but Lane could not hear him over the ringing in his ears.

"Answer: In space, Master. You can tell by the lack of screaming. Or rather, the lack of the ability to hear screaming. Either way, it is most intriguing," said the droid in a higher volume.

Lane stared at the droid for a few moments in silence. He had promptly decided not to bother trying to understand anyone or anything any longer. Since it rarely mattered, and only seemed to cause more problems. And then you just turned around and woke up covered in your own blood, while the world just kept being all nonsensical at you and—Wait. . . _blood?_

He looked at what remained of his shirt. It was dark red. Which was fine. There nothing wrong with dark red shirts, except that he was pretty sure this one had been blue when he first put it on.

"Gnghh?"

"Statement: You were leaking, Master. The Jedi-meatbag plugged you," explained HK, a being who only looked at physiology from reverse. "You may be happy to note, Master, that the hairy meatbag has repaired the cleaning facilities to working condition."

". . .Where?" Lane croaked so low he couldn't even hear himself. He was getting really, _really_ fed up with waking up covered in blood. Especially _his_ blood. There are some things a man shouldn't have to endure, and this was definitely among the top three.

"Answer: In the Cargo-hold, I believe, Master."

Something about the way the droid said this made Lane uneasy. Normally this was true of everything HK said, or stated as the droid put it, but this time there was a hint of something else behind it's voice. It _almost_ sounded like anticipation.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Statement: Yes, Master. I overheard the Jedi-meatbag mention it earlier."

Lane stared at the droid. Even though he could have sworn he heard a snort there at the end, there was no point in trying to make any sense of what was going on. But just maybe things would seem a little less irritating after a warm shower.

-

On the deck of the Sith flagship, Admiral Saul Karath was busy nursing a warm cup of coffee and trying like hell not to overhear anything that might upset him. Which given the current state of the Sith armada these days, was darn near everything.

"Sir!" called a young Sith running towards him.

Oh, no you don't, thought the Admiral as he raised the cup high above his head. He really had not been getting enough sleep lately.

"Wait, Sir!" yelled the Sith when he saw the Admiral was about to throw a cup at him. "I have, I mean _we_ have news, Sir.

"I know that! Get away from me. Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it!" shouted the Admiral. "Bother someone else with it."

"Some one else, Sir?" The Sith looked down disappointedly at the piece of correspondence he was carrying. "Who, Sir?"

"I don't know. Why don't one of you go bother Lord Malak for a change?" said the Admiral sourly. "He 's suppose to be the Dark Lord around here, not me!"

The young Sith looked unsure. He had heard the rumors about Lord Malak. Everyone had. They were impossible to avoid, really. Especially after he had ordered animal husbandry to become a required course back at the Academy.

"Um, okay. . . Sir."

-

The droid had been correct. There was, remarkably, a working shower facility on the Ebon Hawk. Funny how he had never noticed it before, but Lane had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. It was a large enough room, featuring all the things most people would consider standard fare, but to Lane—who had spent the last few days unconscious in one grimy location after another—they looked like a godsend.

It was also really warm and humid in here, he noticed. Perhaps someone had used it already, or maybe the wookie had to do some extensive testing while making the repairs. Either way, considering he was freezing when he first woke up, it felt pretty refreshing. And with any luck, that annoying ringing might stop.

He pulled off his clothes as carefully as he could. It felt like parts of his body had gone to sleep, and judging by all the cuts and bruises on his skin, most of them would not be in a very good mood if they were woken up.

There was a mirror on the far wall. He stared at it in the vague general way of men everywhere before a bath. Some things were just genetic.

He was seeing a lot more scars then he would have liked. Many of them seemed to be new, while a few of them carried a lot of old stories. Like that time he thought it would be quicker to fly _through_ the asteroid field rather then go around it. He still had a lot of scars from that one. He couldn't quite remember why he had been in such a hurry at the time, but there was obviously a reason for it, even if he couldn't recall it now.

Lane squinted at the mirror. Come to think of it, his memory had been really spotty lately. That sort of thing was only suppose to happen to _old_ people. Not young strapping lads like himself, he swelled out his chest impressively while watching himself in the mirror.

Well, there was nothing for it. With all the bumps and bruises he was getting lately, it was a wonder he could remember his own name. He probably shouldn't be complaining. He stepped back from the mirror, walked over to the shower, and pulled the door open.

There was a scream. It was loud, he could hear it even with the ringing. But it didn't matter because his eyes were working over time to encompass what they were witnessing before him. There were few ways for him to ever put to words what he was looking at, but if he had to it would likely be. . . _simply paradise_— pure, warm, and above all _soapy_ _paradise_.

He stared. Then his eyes traveled downwards.

Never again would Lane think of bubbles in the same way.

Then, what sounded like a deep robotic laughter broke him from his reverence and he quickly looked up. What he saw then did _not_ look like paradise. In fact, it looked like a small and otherwise dainty fist traveling very quickly towards the point between his eyes.

There was a loud thud, and then he fell backwards.

". . . not again . . ." he grumbled as the all too familiar darkness came over him.

-

This was another part of the Sith Flagship. It had a name, all the ships did, but no one really bothered with them except for the all too impressionable people who felt that things like ship names were important and worth knowing. No, much more importantly, this ship had a _number_. And that number was—thanks to the current Sith Lord—zero.

A committee of higher ranking, and more daring Sith had tried to point out that zero was not a number, so much as a _lack_ of a number. This had then spurred a long and pointless debate on universal mathematics that ended up involving both deserts and tortoises. In the end, it had given everyone a serious headache, so they had decided to just go with it.

Such is the nature of nearly all committees throughout the multi-verse.

"So, as you can see Sir," said the young Sith. "She has not, exactly, been following orders."

Darth Malak, current Dark Lord of the Sith, considered this. This was grave news. He could sense things were afoot. This was fate of all Sith Lords, to constantly be on guard from any attack or plot set against them by their underlings, or from any suspicious-looking bovine.

"I see," lied the Dark Lord. "This is most troubling news."

"It is, Sir?" said the young Sith. "I mean, she should have checked in sooner, sure, but I don't think. . ." the young Sith stopped when it became apparent his Lord and Master was not listening, but instead was walking slowly around the room.

"We have a new enemy, and her name is. . ." the Dark Lord paused. "Her name is. . . . . .I don't know what her name is. But whatever it is, _that_ is the name of our new enemy."

"Oh. Okay, Sir," said the young Sith. He didn't feel it was his place to question. Besides, the war could never be won if folks went around not checking in and—

"Set your weapons for stun. I want her taken alive."

The young Sith looked around the room questionably. "Sir?" he said, finally.

"You heard me Admiral," the Dark Lord said gravely. "Take this ship apart, I want those plans found."

"Sir?" said the young Sith with a hint of concern. "I'm not an admiral, Sir. It's me, Lieutenant Wedge, Sir. Remember? I do your coffee in the mornings."

The Dark Lord of the Sith stopped and looked at him. The young Sith shifted uneasily. You could never tell what this Dark Lord was thinking, so it always paid to be able to run at a moment's notice.

"Aren't you suppose to be a rebel?" he said, at long last.

"A rebel, Sir? I admit I may have had a bit of a wild streak when I was a teen, Sir, but I would hardly call that a rebellion. More like a sort of, puberty thing, I think, Sir," the young Sith explained.

"Right. Very well, welcome aboard Lieutenant Wedge," said the Dark Lord a little too cheerfully, before adding "There will be no one to stop us now."

'Yessir, . . .but I've been with the Sith with nearly four years, Sir."

--

The Ebon Hawk was nearing its destination now, Dantooine; a planet so dull that you had to take a number to watch the grass grow.

"You know," said Carth in the pilot seat as the ship slowly descended through the atmosphere, "it almost feels like we're forgetting something."

"I know what you mean," said Mission who was seated across from him. "But we have everything. Well, everything wasn't stolen, sold, lost, or set free, anyway."

"Right," said Carth. "But it still feels like there is something we're missing."

-

Canderous Ordo, of the Mandalorian clan Ordo, groaned. He wasn't sure what had happened, or where he was now but he was sure that his head felt like a herd of excited Kurosawa school girls had rampaged through it He tried to remember his recent life up to this point.

There had been a cantina. There had been alcohol. Then, as there usually was, there had been a woman. After that things became hazy. There had been an explosion? That couldn't have been good.

He opened his eyes.

And now there was a lightsaber. It was big, pink, and quite impressive in the same way of things everywhere when they're less than an inch from your nose. At the other end was a hooded woman with a bruised face. She was scowling at him.

"Aw, nuts." he said as the world went dark once again.

It looked like it was going to be another one of those days.


	7. Wanton Wilderness

(I ended up having to reread the previous bits myself, which is never a good sign, to make sure some of this appears to make sense. Hopefully it does, if not just think of any discrepancies as entirely intentional until I can make something else up.)

-

"I never want to go through _that_ again," Lane said bitterly, as he stepped out into an early Dantooine sunrise. There didn't seem to be many people up and about at this hour, as the walkway was entirely empty.

It had been an eventful couple of hours since the Ebon Hawk had landed on Dantooine. Lane had not been surprised at all to come to, and find himself looking up at five angry Jedi-Masters. They had then lectured him about something or other, but he hadn't paid much attention. His mind had still been feeling the aftereffects of seeing something completely, and totally amazing.

He only wished he could remember what it was.

As for the Council, then there had been a lot of arguing, threatening, and gentle prodding about some Jedi code or another. Eventually they had come to an agreement, or had least stopped arguing, which was close enough as far as Lane was concerned.

"So, what was I suppose to do again?" he asked.

Next to him stood a very sleepy Bastila, she yawned and held up a clipboard.

"Oh, for goodness sake. Didn't you pay any attention to—" Bastila stopped, having remembered to whom she was speaking. "—No , of course you didn't." She grudgingly began reading from the clipboard. "You are not to leave this planet. You are to perform any task given to you by the council. You are to assist any Jedi, or citizens, that are in need. You are prohibited from attempting any sort of commerce, or other method of financial gain, and lastly, you are to. . .to. .," her voice slowly trailed off.

"To what?" Lane asked, looking over Bastila's shoulder at the clipboard.

He squinted. There at the end of the list was something scribbled in bad handwriting.

". . .refrain from. . . seducing? . . .Yeah, seducing, . . . my pada. . .padawoomp," Lane slowly read. "What's a Padawoomp?" he asked, slightly annoyed that he wasn't allowed to seduce one, even if he didn't know technically what one was.

"Padawan," said Bastila, meekly.

"Padawan . . ." Lane thought about this. "Wait, that's a Jedi, right?"

"Yes, it is the title of a Jedi who has yet to take the trials of Knighthood," Bastila explained, automatically. Her mind was busy trying to figure out why Master Vrook, who's terrible handwriting was unmistakable, would scribble that onto the list. As far as she knew, he only had one Padawan, and that was . . .

"You okay, Bastila?" Lane asked. "You got a fever or something? Only you've gone awful red."

"I have not!" Bastila snarled catching Lane off guard.

"Geez okay," he said taking a few steps back. "Well anyway, I don't care what it is. I haven't tried seducing any, I'm sure of that. But then again . . . we are talking about you Jedi. For all I know I could've nodded my head or winked at someone when I was here last time," he continued, thinking it over. "With as prudish as you guys are, that's probably like asking a woman to bend over and grab her toes or something—Hey, are you even listening?"

"What? Of course I am," Bastila lied. "Unlike you, I feel its important to listen when people—even rude, idiotic, and downright boorish people—are speaking."

"Right," said Lane suspiciously.

Bastila was a woman, and he knew from experience—some of which was very recent—that women were very much _not _sane. They were also dangerous, moody, noisy, and tended to blow up cantinas while you were still in them. He took a few cautionary steps back.

-

High above the planet of Tatooine, a small Sith vessel drifted through space. It wasn't a big ship, but then it didn't need to be. It, like all things—at least all things with a serial number—had a purpose. The fact that it was not technically performing this purpose was the source of one side of the three-way argument that was taking place inside.

"And my name is not Number-Three, dammit!," scowled the young Sith. "My name is A—"

"I don't care _what_ your name is, and if you ever raise your voice to me again I'll kill you just like I killed that other idiot," the hooded woman said coldly.

"I really wish you would," interjected Canderous Ordo, who was tied to a chair."He's starting to get on my nerves."

"Shut-up!" Number-Three growled at him, "You're our prisoner. Prisoners aren't allowed to talk."

"I don't feel much like a prisoner," said Canderous casually. "But since you brought it up, why did you guys grab me for anyway?"

"Um, hello? We're Sith, it's what we do," said Number-Three with a wave of his hand.

"Well, I heard you guys aren't—"

"Be quiet, the both of you," said the woman. She was already on the verge of a complete murderous rampage, and these two idiots weren't helping matters. Although she still wasn't too sure of how it had happened, back in that cantina she had suddenly had a five year long gap in her memory filled in an instant. She saw the memories fall into place like a strange mental jigsaw puzzle. And when it was done, she hadn't liked what she saw one bit. Especially when she realized that the _worst_ of it was standing there, right in front of her.

The bastard was _still_ alive.

-

The fields of Dantooine were impressive. They stretched for miles in every direction, and seemed packed with all sorts of wild animals mucking about the way wild animals often do when they think they're being watched. Lane surveyed them as he and his two droids made their way through the wilderness.

The Jedi had insisted that he take a room at the enclave with the rest of the group, but Lane was having none of that. He knew he disagreed with the Jedi on a number of things, not the least of which was _his_ basic right to exist. So he had opted to live out in the wilderness. Theorizing that it couldn't be that difficult if even animals could do it. Besides, that old Jedi – Vrook, or something – had been following him around and glaring at him. It made Lane uncomfortable to watched by anyone, especially senile old men.

Originally, Lane hadn't liked the idea of being stuck on Dantooine, and he still wasn't too fond of the notion. But now that he was getting farther and farther away from the Jedi enclave, he was starting to feel a bit more comfortable. In fact, he suspected he might even enjoy it out here, if only for a few rare moments. The air was fresh, the sun was warm, and the small creeks they crossed looked quite clear and inviting. All and all, it was starting to seem like it was going to a nice day. He was, he had to admit, feeling quite positive about things for a change.

Which is precisely why he did not see the Mandalorian raiders until it was too late.

"Should I even bother asking why neither of you said anything?" Lane glared at his two droids.

"Statement: We thought you needed this, Master," HK said loyally. "It has, after all, been days since anyone has tried to terminate you."

"_Day_," Lane bitterly corrected the droid. "As in only _one._ And for future reference, providing we somehow still _have_ a future; I'm fine with going weeks, months, or heck, even _years_ without someone trying to kill me."

By now the Mandalorians had noticed the trio. There was a small group of the armored men, along with several other well-armed aliens. Their apparent leader, a large man in some ugly yellow armor, walked towards them with all the airs of someone who had thought of something devilish clever to say beforehand, and now at long last saw an opportunity to finally say it.

"Out of morbid curiosity," Lane watched the Mandalorians spread out around them, "what are our chances of actually surviving?"

"Statement: Practically zero, Master," the assassin droid replied.

". . . Practically?"

"Statement: Yes, Master. My logic does not allow me to correctly factor negative integers."

Lane shook his head dismissively as HK and T3 raised their weapons. He had a longstanding rule against dying, and he could see no reason to change that. When the Mandalorian leader drew near, Lane raised his hand to the air and much to the surprise of everyone, he began to wave.

He had a plan. It wasn't much of a plan by any means, but given the situation it looked positively brilliant compared to the very likely terminal alternative. Besides, he was desperate and it was all he could think of ; which, when push comes to shove, accounts for nine-tenths of all the seemingly brilliant ideas throughout the multi-verse.

He only hoped the Mandalorians would be stupid enough to listen.

"I say," Lane called out jubilantly to the leader, "you guys are lucky that you ran into us."

-

"I didn't know there was a Sith base on Kashyyk," said Number-Three, as he reluctantly plotted down a course for the remote planet. He wasn't keen on the idea of not reporting in, as per procedure, but he was even less keen on the idea of decapitation. From the way his supposedly Sith comrade had been acting lately, it was probably best not to argue.

"There isn't," the woman said

"I thought not," said Number-Three, expecting her to explain herself. When this didn't happen, he grew annoyed and turned to her. "So what _is_ there?"

"Trees, and Wookies," she said, automatically. Her eyes were closed, and by the sound her voice, her mind was elsewhere.

"Trees and Wookies," he repeated. It didn't sound any more like an answer even when he said it. " Not like it matters what I think, but—,"

"I could always remove your head, if you prefer," she said calmly.

"No, no I like Trees. Wookies too. I love them in fact," said Number-Three drearily

The woman ignored him. She had told him the truth. There were both trees and wookies on Kashyyk, of course. But there were also _other_ things. Things the idiot didn't need to know about. Things she _wished_ she didn't know about.

She could remember it all now. What she had been. What she had believed. What _he_ had said to her. What she had done. What had been done to her. And finally, what had been _taken _ from her. All the memories were there, with every moment in seemingly excruciating detail.

She cringed, and sank lower into the ship's seat.

-

It was, Lane always thought, just a matter of coming off as uninterested. Sigh a lot, shake your head, make your mark figure things out, and then make them feel clever about it. That was the key. When you understood that, then the whole universe could become a lot more interesting. However, given the great cosmic sense of irony that seemed to follow Lane where ever he went, he also understood how important it was to be standing somewhere else soon after doing this.

"So what you're saying," said the Mandalorian Leader, his brow creased with a struggling thought, "is there aren't any guards on the inside?"

"Well," said Lane, sucking a deep breath and rocking on his heels, "they _call_ them guards, but frankly I wouldn't call them much of nothing."

"Uh-huh," said the Mandalorian. The thought was struggling to come to life, but it was definitely gaining momentum inside his skull.

"I reckon a man, or _group_ of men," Lane looked around conspiratorially, "could just waltz in the West Gate, and have the whole council surrounded before anyone knew it."

"You mean the old Jedi?" the Mandalorian said with some slight concern."Aren't they suppose to be powerful as all get-out?"

"Yeah, I suppose they are," said Lane evenly.

The Mandalorian shifted, and around them several pairs of eyes privately pivoted between what looked like a sure thing, and a what could be a very big and very risky name-making opportunity.

Lane watched all of this and smiled inwardly. Sometimes it was it was too easy.

"That is, . . . _if you believe that kind of thing,_" he said, leaning back on his heels.

There was a heavy silence as the men, one and all, tried to decide what they believed. Finally one spoke, "Load of rubbish, Jedi. Really."

"Yeah," chimed in another. "I always thought just got lucky in the war. They weren't that tough."

"Except for that Revan guy."

Lane paused when he heard this. Of course had had heard the name before. Everyone had. It was practically impossible not to know the name of whatever Sith-Lord or Crazy-Nut job was trying to destroy the galaxy this week, at least not with the way the holo-networks were vying for ratings by scaring the ever-living daylights out of people these days. But still, the name seemed so. . . _unfamiliar._

"Yeah, but he's dead, so no worries there."

"He's right. He got done over by his right hand I heard."

Everyone but Lane stopped, and stared at the Mandalorian who had said this.

"Well, it's what I heard," the Mandalorian said, defensively.

"What, like it strangled him to death in his sleep? Don't be ridiculous."

"Maybe it could've stabbed him when he wasn't looking?

"That could've happen. But I heard he was betrayed by his number two."

"Now that's just disgusting, Lou. Frankly, you shouldn't even be—"

"Gentlemen, please!" Lane shouted above them. He was feeling uneasy, and he wasn't sure why. That made him feel even more uneasy. "There is a whole treasure trove of loot in that enclave waiting for you. _If_ you hurry!"

There were some general murmurs of agreement from the group, and their leader looked over at Lane.

"Think you could stick around until when we get back?" he asked. "Only it's our quota see. And we haven't actually robbed you yet."

"Of course," said Lane. "I'll wait right here, and . . . guard your . . . really expensive-looking things for you."

"Really? That's awfully nice of you. C'mon lads. We'll make it out of the red yet," the leader said, and motioned for the others to follow him.

Lane waited until they disappeared over the hill before he began to unceremoniously dig into the bags and lockers left behind. By the looks of it the Mandalorians had been out here for a while, robbing anyone who came by. Too bad there likely wasn't much worth stealing on Dantooine.

"Statement: Master, I am conflicted," said HK.

"Why's that?" Lane said, as he pulled out what he thought was a rather inappropriate looking bath accessory.

"Statement: You have most certainly just exterminated an entire group of Mandalorian meatbags," said the droid.

Lane turned one locker over, and started looking through another. "I thought you would be pleased about that," he said questioningly.

"Statement: Oh, I am, Master. It's just. . ." the droid paused, and seemed uncertain.

"Just what?"

"Statement: You did so without any the usual entertaining means of violence. I am perplexed. The meatbags are dead, which I find quite satisfactory. But you murdered them with _words. _There was no joy, no thrill, no anything; just simple termination," HK said.

"If they're dead, and we're alive—or whatever it is droids are suppose to be, and I haven't gotten any bits bits of entrails on me, then we're doing far better then we normally do, let me tell you. So what's the problem?" Lane asked.

"Statement: It seems somewhat _distasteful_, Master," said HK.

Lane stopped his scavenging long enough to give his droid a doubtful look. "HK, I've personally witnessed you kill things in a way that'd make even an Idorian sick. Like when you pulled the feet off that Sand-person, shoved them in its mouth, and then—"

"Statement: Ah, so you understand, Master. It is that kind of personal approach that makes the difference between enjoyment and tedium," said HK.

"Yeah, right," said Lane. "Now help me set up this tent. This looks as good a spot as any."

After a number of false starts, and a lot of bickering, a large spotty green-gray tent was erected over the former Mandalorian campsite. Which, in essence, was little more then a tree, a four-seater speeder, a few rocks, and a small bend of the nearby creek. However to Lane, it was a fixed marked line between _here_—where he seem relatively safe—and _there_—where the galaxy was undoubtedly planning something dreadful for him.

"It'll do," Lane said finally, and took a seat under the shady tree. He stretched out his legs, and leaned back. A cool breeze flowed around him, and he felt his eyelids collapse under their own weight. And once again, for the moment life didn't seem too shabby.

HK and T3 watched all of this in slight puzzlement. They understood meatbags required a certain amount of unconsciousness per standard lunar cycle, but even so they were both aware neither had been given any actual orders.

"Query: Master, what are we suppose to do?" HK said, after exchanging doubtful glances with the smaller droid.

A muffled groan came from Lane as he tried to bend his neck around a particularly uncomfortable knot on the tree's trunk.

"Can't you guys amuse yourself for a few—" Lane stopped and opened his eyes, suddenly realizing the likely outcome of such an order. "Just sort through all of this junk," he said. "There might be a few more things we can use, and T3, see about that speeder."

A loud grumble from Lane's stomach reminded him he hadn't actually ate anything in recent memory. "And cook something. Something I can eat and _not_ die from, I mean."

The two droids set about their tasks, while Lane dosed off into sweet, blissful unawareness. It really had been ages since he had a proper sleep. Sure, he had been knocked unconscious a number of times, but that hardly counted. Besides, even then there were all those freaky dreams getting in the way. Lane could bitterly recall a time when his dreams consisted of nothing more sinister then some buxom young women, and large amounts of alcohol. There were no 'dark figures', geographically challenged deserts, no questionable senses of morality, no alien feelings of megalomania; just women, alcohol, money, and the occasional loofah.

He really missed those dreams.

-

Jedi enclaves are known throughout the galaxy as sanctuaries of quiet refuge. This is a very polite way of saying they are as dull as dull could be, if ever dull should be dull. In short, _they were__dull_. To the right person, or at least what might remain of the right person, this can have a sort of appeal. When your life has been one constantly shifting nightmare of one agonizing form or another, long periods of uneventfulness can, and often does, sound downright interesting.

But on the other hand, when you are sixteen and just happen to know everything; dullness can seem like the depths of your own grandiosely verbose purgatory, or other similarly borderline incoherent metaphors. The mind tends to wander, and often comes back with souvenirs. It as this point that the desire to express one's torment comes to bare, or at least to inform the world at large of it.

"I'm bored," said Mission, right on cue.

This did not seem to have the desired effect, as no one seemed to notice. Zaalbar was busy fixing, or at least doing something to the Ebon Hawk. He had only came out of the ship for food, and the occasional desire to be walked. For some reason, he seemed to be almost as uneasy as Lane around the Jedi.

Carth, meanwhile, was busy being _Carth. _Which is to say he was apparently planning a rather ingenious method of checking Bastila for what he had called 'Sith markings' The fact, that when questioned, he did not appear to know what such things would like, did not seem to be slowing him down in the least. Mission had decided to leave him to it, but made a note to make sure to watch when he went about it.

They had lost Canderous somewhere on Tatooine, and no one seemed all that interested in going back for him. Beyond that, there wasn't much else to do. The young Twi'lek had reluctantly decided to sit down and make the best of things.

"C'mon greeny!" she said, cheering on an rather indistinct blade of grass.

"I got it!" said Carth, running up to her, and more inconveniently, blocking her view.

"Got what?" she said with only a hint of annoyance.

"An idea!" Carth exclaimed.

"Nuh-uh" Mission stood up, and dusted herself off. "I told you, I'm not luring Bastila into the bathroom for you. That's just too creepy."

"No, forget about that," said Carth. "This plan is much better, and perfectly reasonable."

"Oh yeah?" Mission had to admit she was vaguely curious, if only for cautionary reasons.

"Yup," Carth beamed with unmistakable pride. "We're going to get those Mandalorians over there," Carth stopped and pointed towards a group of armored men in front of the gate, "to kidnap her."

-

"Tell me about these dreams, young one," said Master Vrook, who was standing with Bastila inside the Enclave's courtyard.

"When we first arrived here, I saw what looked like Malak, and Revan in some sort of tomb. I am certain it was here on Dantooine," said Bastila. "Then on Tatooine, there was a similar one. Albeit much more briefer then the first."

"I see," said Vandar. "And what do you think it means?"

Bastila paused, and wrinkled up her nose. She positively _hated_ when the Masters did this. It seemed like whenever you were faced with some inexplicably difficult to explain phenomena, the Masters could only flip things around on you, and then ask you what _you_ thought it meant. If she damn well knew what it meant then she would not have bothered asking!

"I don't know," she said, holding back her anger."If Lane shared the dream, then perhaps it was some inkling of a forgotten memory traversing this 'bond' _you_ _claim_ I share with him. But since he refuses to speak with me about such matters, it's entirely possible it was just simply a bad dream I conjured up on my own."

"That is a possibility," said Vandar, causing Bastila to inwardly glower.

That was another thing, everything was _"a possibility." _ To most Masters, nothing in this world was an absolute, or real. It was all just _"a possibility." _ Half the time Bastila wondered if the Masters weren't simply Masters because they were incapable of doing anything _other_ then talking in abstract riddles, or spewing more rhetoric then philosophy majors on methamphetamine.

"Of course, Master Vandar," she said, and silently cursed Vandar and all the Masters to a general spot in among the highest peaks of aggravation Hell.

"However, I am troubled to see that you are failing in your original assignment," Vandar stood up, and motioned for her to follow. "You were to watch him, Bastila. To befriend him," the Jedi Master continued, "to gain his trust. It does not sound like you have been very successful."

"But Master Vandar, surely I cannot be held responsible for that. I cannot gain the trust of someone who inherently distrusts me," said Bastila. "To him, I am a Jedi, and Jedi are not to be trusted."

"Oh, I do not believe he _dislikes_ you, young one" Vandar said, half amused. "Quite the contrary. When you first brought him before us, his mind reeked of jealousy. In fact. . .," Vandar stopped as a thought struck him, he then looked Bastila over as an idea formed. "I think you may have overlooked a very useful tool at your disposal. . ."

"And what would that be, Master?" Bastila asked irritably. "Because whatever it is, I do not think it will be much use. Lane has only ever seemed concerned with money, or women, and I severely doubt he would respond to anything else."

"But young one, you _are_ a _woman_," Master Vandar sighed.

This was going to be difficult.

-


	8. Indecisive Indignation

( Lucasarts still owns everything.)

-

Much thought has been given to the question on whether or not today's modern machines, with their complicated logic and complex-self awareness programming, are capable of feelings. If a machine can recognize the feelings present in the organic creatures around them, then are they too not capable of voicing their own basic desires and needs upon their environment? Do the simple numbers of their logarithms ever add up to anything more? Does their black and white way of seeing the world ever mesh into a subtle gray? In short; does there ever come a possible point where '01001110 01101111 00101100 00100000 01110011 01110100 01101111 01110000 00100001' adds up to '_I'm pissed.' _It is a troubling question, and one most organics have worried about ever since those first brief moments of uncertainty regarding whether the toaster should be thanked or not.

One such machine, or rather droid, was busy voicing it's feelings on a herd of wild Cath Hounds who had made the mistake of being the only visible source of protein within the vicinity. Even now, the smell of scorched fur and sizzling flesh was washing over the surrounding plains.

While a second droid, of far less sinister design, was busy spray painting a speeder. For some possibly unknown reason, the paint was bright orange. There was also a large '01' decal laying in the freshly cut-grass nearby.

Amid all these noxious fumes of aerosol-based paint, charred flesh, and the baying cries of the soon to be dinner, Lane Jerko—explorer of forgotten sewers, purveyor of scrupulous economics, and the sometimes defender of excitable young women everywhere—slept peacefully. So peacefully in fact, that he was snoring.

For the first time in a very long time, he was having a pleasant dream. Strangely enough, it did not involve any of his usual standards. There were no women of much endowment, and little modesty. There were no giant strings of credits dancing happily hand in hand into his bank account. There wasn't even any alcohol.

There was, however, a beach, an ocean, and a girl. None of which seemed all that impressive. The beach was the ordinary brownish-yellow variety, and the ocean certainly wasn't thrashing about with any sort of wild aquatic fury. It was just setting there, sloshing possibly. But the girl was different. Lane couldn't see her face, but he was pretty sure it was a girl. All the requirements were definitely there, for one thing. She also seemed to know him, which was unusual, but not so unusual as the feeling that it wasn't exactly him to whom she was speaking. Eventually, he found himself speaking to her, but again the words didn't feel like his. Overall, it felt more like he was watching the dream rather then participating in it, but given some of his _other_ dreams lately, this still wasn't all that bad.

-

Within the Jedi Enclave some miles away, Bastila Shan, one of the most promising padawans in the Jedi order, was furious. Blisteringly furious. She scowled at everyone and everything on her way back to her quarters out of general spite. She couldn't believe one of the Masters would ever suggest such a thing, let alone outright insinuate it as a course of action.

The young Jedi stormed into her sparsely decorated room, and flung the despicable 'magazine' that she had been given against the far wall. It bounced back with a slight thud, and landed on her bed. She glared hatefully at it, then went outside onto the adjourning balcony. Bastila found that the cool evening air often helped to calm her mind when she was feeling up set, and right now she desperately needed to consider her options.

She knew she could complain. There was the main council on Coruscant, and if nothing else she knew Master Vrook would definitely disagree with such a ploy. But then it would all go down in her file, too. Oh sure, people would understand _if_ she explained it to them, but it would always be there haunting her. Like most young Jedi, Bastila held future aspirations of planting her behind in one of the cushy council chairs at some point, and she knew that something like this could really derail that. With great reluctance, she went back inside, and picked up the magazine.

The pages were filled with pictures of women wearing all sorts of odd things. From dresses to jumpsuits, the magazine seemed to cover everything. There seemed to be a heavy emphasis on silk and free-flowing lacy underwear on some pages, but otherwise it didn't seem _completely_ scandalous. There were also a few articles about things like "_finding your natural colors,"_ and "_how to snare his attention."_ The word "plucking" seemed to be mentioned a lot.

It was all so alien to her, she sighed flipping through the pages. But contrary to what Vandar had believed, Bastila was well aware that she was, indeed, a woman. It was something that had become hard to miss over the last few years. The problem was that she had long ago accepted the fact that such things like silk dresses and lacy undergarments were not going to be a part of her life as a Jedi. At the time, she had felt like she was missing out on some seemingly interesting aspect of being a young woman, but that had been quickly waylaid as she found herself being praised and admired for her skill and ability in battle. As she had grown older, she had simply stopped thinking about it.

Now all of a sudden, she was expected to not only understand things like 'eyeshadow', but to use it to her advantage on a hapless idiot. Bastila glared at the magazine. If the Order had wanted her to be a "_sultry, eye-catching woman of mystery and intrigue"_, then they damn well should have trained her for it.

-

The Mandalorians raiders stared at one another from across the Enclave's holding cells. They were all feeling rather embarrassed. Hours ago, what had seemed like a rather fetching idea was now seeming ratherdaft. Yet when the young man had explained it to them, it had all made such perfect sense. He had made them all see it so clearly. They would stroll up to the unguarded back gate, _open _it, and then proceed to loot, maim, and pillage to their heart's content. Things like 'Electronic locks' or 'remote security drones' had not been a part of that image, but they really should have been.

It had all been really rather disappointing.

-

Happiness is different things to different people. To some, it is born of love and admiration. To others, it is found within the warm embrace of friends and family. To a select silent few, it is simply a foot encased in a bit of silkworm excrement. However, to most folks—such as the young twi'lek who was now skipping cheerfully through the Jedi courtyard—happiness is equivalent to money.

"Wow," said a still bubbly Mission Vao, "I can't believe the Jedi gave us the reward for capturing all those Mandalorians."

Behind her stood a very gloomy Republic Solider who said nothing. Carth Onasi was many things to many people; companion, friend, heartthrob, bloody annoying, but right now he was depressed. His clever plan to save an innocent young women from the terrors of the darkest . . . _darkness_ had been thwarted. He was now back at square one.

"I mean, we didn't do anything beyond show them how to call for maintenance." Mission conceded. "But whatever. Credits are credits." She saw her companion apparently wasn't as sharing her exuberance. "What's wrong with you?" she asked.

"We _failed, _Mission," Carth said, shaking his head. "Bastila is doomed."

Mission rolled her eyes. Carth really was kind of weird, but his heart seemed in the right place. Even if that was stuck right up his—Mission shook her head, dismissing the unseemly image. Like Lane, she too becoming annoyed with his constant flair for melodrama.

"Carth, I know you have a thing for Bastila," she said as gently as she could. "But it isn't your place to decide if she and Lane should. . . " Mission struggled with the thought. No matter how she tried to force it, she couldn't see those two doing anything together other then yelling at one another. "Besides, you gotta realize how crazy that sounds. She's a Jedi. They aren't built for that sort of thing, and plus she has, you know, been wanting him drop dead sense Taris."

"The power of the dark side can seduce us _all,_ Mission," said Carth ominously without a hint of sarcasm. "You are suppose to be Bastila's friend, how can you abandon her to something like that?"

"Well even ifit was true, I don't think it's fair to keep calling Lane a Sith, or whatever," said Mission. "He may be greedy, uncaring, self-centered, morally ambiguous, insecure, bitterly jealous, homophobic, and down right rude at times; but that doesn't make him a Sith." Mission paused, rechecked all of this internally, and then added, "They're not that bad."

-

Meanwhile, Bastila—having swallowed her pride, among other things—was busy trying to come to terms with something called a 'corset.' Apparently, it's purpose was to squeeze some places to make them look smaller, while at the same time push other places up to make them look bigger. She reread the description again. It still did not make any more sense.

This was all very silly, she thought. But gaining Lane's trust was important, if not for the galaxy, then at least for her career as a Jedi. She needed to know whether he too was having dreams about Malak and. . . and . . . _him, _and if so, were they any more detailed. Worse yet, she needed to make sure her record _remained_ unblemished, and if this meant she needed to become 'girly' in order to ensure that, then by the Heavens, she was determined to do it.

Now, if only she knew where to start . . .

-

By the time Lane woke up, the moon was just coming into view, but it was already bright enough to cast a soft ethereal glow over the plains. Which was handy, since there hadn't been any utility lights among the Mandalorians' stashes. It had been one of many things Lane had, in his haste to be away from the Enclave, had simply forgotten about.

Lane groggily got to his feet, and reluctantly looked around for signs of anything that might upset him. He was surprised by how normal things seemed. The droids had neatly sorted the Mandalorians loot like he had asked, and the camp perimeter had even been firmly established by what looked like freshly cut grass. How this was possible, Lane was not sure, but the droids had obviously followed his orders for once. They both were now apparently waiting for him by a small rock-bound fire.

"I can't say I was expecting this," Lane said, as he took a seat next to them.

"Statement: We have done as you asked, Master. The camp is secure. The speeder is viable," the droid seemed to hesitate before continuing. "But proper substance is unavailable out here. The best I could do was this," the droid said handing him a hunk of something vaguely brown-looking. It was still smoking.

"What is it?" Lane asked, suspiciously.

"Statement: Deep fried Kath hound, Master. _Extremely_ deep fried," the droid added with a hint of pride.

It smelt terrible, but Lane was very hungry, so he ate it anyway. He wasn't about to go back to the Enclave to eat. That would be too risky. Besides, Bastila and the others might laugh at him for not being able to cut it out here in the wilds. He wasn't about to let _that_ happen. After everything lately, he needed something—anything— to prove he wasn't a total twit, even if only to himself.

"It'll do," Lane said gruffly while willing his stomach not to convulse.

"Woop beep woo," T3 chirped, and then suddenly sped away from the fire. The droid stopped at the top of the nearby ridge, and then began making barking noises as a little satellite relay rotated out above it's head.

"What's he mean by there's another fire out there?" Lane asked, looking around the campsite. "And how the hell long has he been able to do _that_? He could've saved us a lot of trouble on Tatooine."

"Statement: It is likely there someone else out here, Master. Earlier I found humanoid tracks in the tall grass that would suggest we are not alone," said HK. "Should we go find, and eliminate whoever it is, Master?"

It wasn't much of a mystery. If someone else was out here then they were likely either a Jedi, a bandit, or possibly a runaway farmer. None of which Lane particularly wanted to deal with, and especially not while he was still unarmed. He needed a weapon. Which was a problem since the Jedi had confiscated all of his. The droids' weapons had gone unnoticed, or at least they had not concerned the council enough to warrant any attention. But Lane had been stripped of nearly everything he owned, beyond the clothes on his back.

Lane wasn't about to use one of the untested rifles the Mandalorians had left behind. The average Mandalorian had a pretty twisted, yet above all _patient_ sense of humor when it came booby traps, and Lane was a big fan of keeping all his fingers attached firmly to his hands when possible.

That left only the lightsabers that the Mandalorians had been collecting. Lane wasn't too keen on using them, either. For one thing, you had to get awfully close to your enemy, or victim to use them. That alone violated nearly every personal rule Lane had about fighting. The Jedi also had some detailed _views_ about non-Jedi's using lightsabers. Of course, they also had some rather detailed _views_ about him too, so it probably wouldn't make much of a difference in his case.

He picked up a lightsaber from one of the piles, and after a few minutes of fumbling, he manage to turn it on. With a soft hum, a greenish beam of light extended from the hilt. Lane gave it a few experimental swings. It seemed easy enough. Take the shiny end, and hit stuff with it. That shouldn't be too hard.

He then felt compelled to try it in his other hand. Lane switched hands, and gave it a few more swings. Without thinking, he then casually tossed it it back to his other hand. When he realized what he had just done, Lane was somewhat unnerved. Considering these things could supposedly cut through solid steel, that had been a damn dangerous thing to just do. Yet it had felt so _natural,_ that he just had to try it again, and then once more after that. Before long the green beam had become a blur as Lane twirled it around him. Finally he stopped, and peered critically at his wrists. Suspiciously, they still seemed to be intact. He thought for sure that the beam had passed through them once or twice.

"That can't be right," he said. "Hey HK, do these things have some kind of automatic mode?"

"Statement: I would think not, Master" the droid answered levelly. "You appear to be skilled with the Jedi weapon."

"Nah," he said. "I've never even seen one up close until just now. Unless it's not half as hard as people claim it to be."

"Query: Uh. . . we could test, and see, Master."

"What kind of t—" before Lane could finish, HK shot him.

-

As the hours passed, Admiral Saul Karath found he was becoming more and more interested in skydiving. However, with the way things had been going lately, he could see little point in taking a parachute. It seemed like it would defeat the whole point.

He stared at the sheep in front of his heavy black desk. It stared back at him. Really, this was too much.

"Lieutenant," the Admiral said, not taking his eyes from the sheep. "It does seem that I was not clear enough in my directions."

"Sir?" said Lieutenant Wedge.

"When I ordered you to 'send in the clones,' I was, in fact, referring to the _human_ clones," said the Admiral..

Panic gripped Lieutenant Wedge. He had been dreading this part. Back in the squad room, he and the other officers had drawn straws to see who would break the news to the Admiral. Naturally he had come up short. It was beginning to feel like trend in his life.

"I am sorry, Sir," said Lieutenant Wedge. "These are the only clones we have."

"Don't be silly," said the Admiral. "Where are the human clones? Big fellas, dress in white. Terrible shots."

"They sort of turned to uh. . . . _goo,_ Sir," the Lieutenant tried to explain. "Something about not being able to stabilize their molecular field," he recited what a scientist had tried to tell him earlier.

"That figures. Damn unreliable things," the Admiral said despondently, before slumping back in chair. "Get it out of here, Lieutenant. Take it to Lord Malak, it'll keep him busy if nothing else."

"Yes, Sir," Lieutenant Wedge saluted sharply then hesitated. "Uh . . . Sir? Calo Nord, Sir. He is still waiting to see you."

"He's not some sort of barnyard animal too, is he?" the Admiral asked, his head now firmly in his hands.

"No, Sir," said Lieutenant Wedge. "He's just upset, Sir. Disturbed, I think he said."

"He's not the only one, Lieutenant," the Admiral sighed. "You had better show him in. I don't need any more problems, but what the hell. It's not like anyone _listens_ to me anymore."

After a complicated few moments, and a number of unexpected Latin phrases, the sheep was shown out, and the bounty hunter Calo Nord entered Admiral Karath's office. The short, squat man took a seat with all the grace of a incontinent rhinoceros. The Admiral had half the mind to ask the bounty hunter if he would require the assistance of a step-ladder to reach his chair.

"I got information for you," the bounty hunter finally said in all too deep a voice. "About the girlie you lot are after."

"Really?" the Admiral said, sitting up.

"Yeah, the Jedi. Bastila something. I saw her," replied the bounty hunter.

"Bastila? Oh, _her_. Yes, right," the Admiral conceded. It was true the Sith had been after, and _technically_ still were. But while Bastila might win the war for them, the Admiral didn't think she could solve all the other problems the Sith were having these days. "The bounty still stands, of course," the Admiral added, if only to hide his sudden disappointment.

"It better," Calo threatened. "But that's not why I'm here. I'm wondering what you're going to pay me to finish the _other _job you all started."

"Should I bother trying to understand that, or have you gone nuts too? It does seem to be catching around here," the Admiral shook his head.

"What I mean, is," the bounty hunter slid out of his chair with dramatic flair before standing up. Which might have been more impressive if only his head had stood more then half an inch above the desk. "There is something I think you might want to know. Bastila has a _friend."_

-

It was at times like these, that Bastila wished she had a friend; or at least someone within the order who understood what it was like to be young woman, a Jedi, and constantly surrounded by _bloody fools _all at the same time. Sadly, her impression of all the other young women in the order was like that of a bunch of mewling house-cats, who were often prone to competing over all sorts of nonsensical things, like who's brown robe was the brownest or some such. It all seemed very silly to her. Especially since anyone could see that her robes were always the most vibrant of browns.

Even one of them would be comforting right now. At least then she would have someone around to persevere in front of, which was no fun at all when there was no one there to admire you for it. It was like performing really well on an exam, only to then have no sort of acknowledgment of your efforts. Certainly you could buy a whole package of gold stars and then award them to your self, but it just wasn't the same.

Bastila looked at herself in the mirror. Unfortunately, she still seemed the same. She had tried to do something earlier with her hair, but it had felt so unnatural that she eventually put it back. That was when she had remembered something from the magazine. She then had spent the next hour shifting through her small closet in order to unearthing some of her old clothing. She had meant to throw them out ages ago, but had never expected she would one day be thinking of wearing them again.

After much internal debate, and a great deal of self-loathing, she had wedged herself into them. It felt like was being squeezed, pushed, and lifted all at the same time. And she knew if she exerted herself she would likely die of asphyxiation within their vice-like grip. However according to the magazine, this was the desired effect. Apparently, women with low lung capacity was a major turn on for most men.

Then, with a lot of reluctance and a small bit of curiosity that she would never admit to, she unbuttoned the lower half of her shirt, voraciously exposing her midriff. She turned back to the mirror. There, now she looked like a complete floozy. Lane would surely be impressed, or whatever it was slobbering idiots like him were suppose to be, and answer her question. And if he didn't, she still had the option—the much preferred, and more and more tempting option—of resorting to violence. If she were going to have a black mark on her record, then it damn well was going to be one that she would enjoy putting there.

Bristling with a new found confidence, partly thanks to her renewed anger masking the personal shame and embarrassment she was feeling, Bastila flipped off the lights, stepped outside, and slammed the door behind her. A few moments later the door reopened, and she dashed in, wrapped a robe around her, and set off again. It's not like she could risk anyone _else_ seeing her like this.

-

Just outside the Enclave, the Ebon Hawk—currently grounded until the Council deemed otherwise—sat peacefully amid the tall grass. The reactor-core hummed softly in its hibernated state, while outside the crickets continued with their soft serenade to the stars. Occasionally a breeze would blow through one of the open port holes and bring with it the warm smells of the countryside. Which strangely had smelt like burnt hair earlier in the evening. But now it brought hint of wild flowers, and tree blooms. It was quite an improvement.

The young twi'lek Mission, and her earnest, if easily forgotten wookie companion Zaalbar slept peacefully amid the ships many, now vacant, bunks. It was a quiet and serene night, and both really needed the rest that was unfortunately about to be disturbed.

"Mission! Zaalbar! Quick!" cried a voice as the lights came on.

"Huh. . . what. . . ," Mission said blearily, while the wookie settled for the anatomically impossible feat of sticking his head between his legs, rolling over, and then making vague growling noises.

"You got to get up, hurry!," said Carth, as oblivious to their annoyance as he was towards things like common sense, and spousal infidelity.

"Why, is the ship on fire?" she asked, slightly concerned.

"No," Carth answered.

"Are the Sith about to destroy the planet?"

"I don't think so," said Carth vaguely. His paranoid imagination was unnerved it hadn't even considered such a thing.

"Then I don't have to get up. Good night, hit the lights as you go out," she said and settled back into her warm covers.

"No, no. This is _much_ worse, Mission" said Carth. "There are things afoot, like Bastila. I just saw her leaving the Enclave. We have to stop her!"

"Oh, you're right, Carth. I'm sure she's going to go meet her new Sith Master," said Mission, who had forgotten the Republic soldier wasn't good at comprehending sarcasm. "Right out there in the middle of no where, in the middle of the night, on a farming planet. Oh, those Sith _are_ devious," she continued on half-asleep.

"Oh my God, I never even considered that. I thought she was just breaking curfew!" Carth panicked. "Now we _gotta_ go."

-


	9. Nocturnal Notoriety

( Lucasarts still owns everything.

--Yoink--.)

-

"I can't believe you shot me," Lane said bitterly. "Especially in this arm. I don't think it has even had time to heal up from that explosion on Tatooine with the crazy woman."

Lane sat down slowly only to find that the grass was already damp with the early morning dew, but Lane ignored it. After everything else the Universe had thrown at him, a bit of dew was barely a concern at this point. It's not like his pants—which come to think of it, were the only pants he had left these days—weren't stained with far worse things already.

"Aren't you suppose to have programming against that sort of thing?" he asked, his curiosity momentarily surpassing the searing pain from his arm.

Across from him the droid HK-47 became quiet and its eyes grew dim. It began to scan its internal logarithms. After a brief pause, it seemed to reach a conclusion. "Answer: No, Master," the droid said evenly, "Quite to the contrary, it would appear that I have programming—as you put it—_for _that sort of thing. A dead Master is not a worthy Master, . . . Master. "

"Well, _that_ figures. Whoever programmed you must have been a real bastard. If we ever meet him, remind me to push him off a bridge or something. The jackass really has it coming."

"Statement: Duly noted, Master. Although I cannot confirm the gender of the creator, or the marital status of his or her parental units."

Lane lightly touched his arm. On the bright side, it was only a flesh wound. He then rethought this for a moment. How did he ever come to a point where the "bright side" could consist of mere agonizing pain? Lane couldn't ever remember the Universe being this nasty before. But then again, he couldn't remember a lot of things.

"You know, HK," he said gravely, "if I didn't know better, I could almost believe I was the punchline to some great galactic joke."

HK seemed to think about this. "Query: Do you mean as—"

"Just be quiet, HK" Lane said. "and hand me that bottle of booze we found earlier."

"Objection: But we don't know what's in it, Master. Even if it is _. . . booze_, Mandalorian physiology is much different then that of a human. It could have potent effects."

"I sure hope so."

The bushes behind them rattled with sudden commotion, followed by some mild swearing. Moments later a disheveled looking Bastila stepped out. There were twigs in her hair, dirt on her face, and mud on her shoes.

However most of this was lost on Lane. His eyes had not made it past her enticingly exposed waist line. There was something wrong about this, a small voice in his head tried to point out, but he ignored it. Lane would have never considered himself a fan of the stomach area—having favored the more excitable bits of female anatomy—but Bastila's toned abs were certainly making a worthwhile counter point.

"There you are," she said coming into the light of the fire.

Lane managed to pull his eyes away long enough to snatch the bottle away from HK. "You're not getting it, Bastila" he said defensively. "I don't know what kind of radar you have that lets you pick up when I'm about to enjoy myself, but you're not stopping me from drinking whatever this is, and then hopefully being sick in the bushes later. It's my God-given right"

"Statement: Err, it could be poison, Master."

"_Especially_ if it's poison," Lane hissed.

"What are you idiots babbling about?" Bastila said tiredly before remembering why she had come out here in the first place. "Never mind, I've come to . . . talk."

-

If the Mandalorians had been confused before, then they were utterly bewildered when their cell doors opened, and they suddenly found themselves being addressed by what looked like an old man in a dingy hooded robe.

"In return for your freedom, I have a task for you," the old man said in what the Mandalorians assumed was suppose to be an ominously tone. More then one of them had noticed the way the old man's eyes kept twitching. They all kept their distance. It wasn't hard to see that the man in front of them was several cards short of a full deck.

"There's a ship in the courtyard; take it." said the old man. "There is. . ." the man's eyes began to twitch even more, "an _idiot_ in the hills not far from here, take him far away from this planet, and eliminate him."

The Mandalorians were quick to take his offer. It wasn't every day you were sprung from jail, given a ship, and offered a job all in one go. They filed out quietly, leaving the old man alone.

"It's not my fault," the old man said, his eyes twitching up a storm. "I told him to stay away from my padawan."

-

Lane stared on in amazement.

Bastila was being _nice_. Almost pleasant, even. She had even went so far as to accept a small glass of whatever it was that had been in the bottle. And if Lane didn't know better, he could swear she now was tipsy. Any lecherous thoughts he might have had were quickly beaten back by the more self-preserving aspect of his personality. To take advantage of a drunken woman was the sure sign of a pathetic man, true enough, but to take advantage of a drunken Jedi was probably the sign of a man who lacked any sensible imagination. It would be a rare indeed if the shape of a lightsaber was merely a coincidence.

_But_ then again, if he were drunk _too_ then surely no one could blame him for what _might _happen. . .

"What about you?" Bastila said suddenly.

"Me?" Lane said quickly, trying to remember what she had been talking about.

"Yes, your dreams," she said. "for the future, I mean."

"Oh, those." Lane thought about it ". . .to have one, I guess. It would be nice to be free again, too " he said. "Ooh, and to make a lot of money, meet a lot of women, and maybe legally own a ship that isn't being confiscated every other day."

"Sounds complicated," she said letting out a slight yawn.

"It didn't use to be," Lane sighed theatrically. "Before the accident, I _was_ free. I even had a ship. It wasn't much, but it was mine. That's what mattered. I could go anywhere, do anything. . . that's real freedom. Maybe I shouldn't be," he looked coyly over his shoulder, only to find that Bastila had apparently passed out. "Dammit, I wasn't finished yet."

HK had been watching all of this with benign interest. Meatbag procreation seemed like such a messy and illogical thing. As far as the droid could understand, it was almost statistically impossible for it to happen at all given the numerous factors that each organic meatbag brought into the equation in order to _"Get their groove on" _as the current Master had once put it.

"Query: Are you going to inseminate her now, Master?" the droid asked in the same manner that one might address a beekeeper, or cattle rancher. "My sensors indicate there is a 63.6 probability of fertilization. If you act now, Master."

"What? _No!_" Lane said, instinctively resorting to denial. " . . .hang on. Your sensors can tell _that_ but they can't tell who or what has been hanging around out there on the ridge?"

"Answer: That is correct, Master. For some reason it appears to be one of my more robust, and well protected functions. I can only assume that such knowledge was of great importance to my creator."

"That's plain disgusting, and—Ugh, never mind. Just toss a blanket over her." Lane said hurriedly, and then threw another piece of timber onto the fire. "Considering how bitchy she normally is, I can't imagine how bad she's going to be with a hangover. I really don't want to be around when she wakes up."

"Statement: Then there is still the matter of there being something else out here, and the ensuing matter of subjecting that something else to prompt and creative termination," said the droid.

"Oh, fine. But I can't help but wonder if this could have been a life changing experience for me," he said standing up. "I could have finally connected with a woman on a higher level. I could have finally found someone who understood me for once." Lane kicked the now empty bottle away. "She might have even been able to offer me the one thing I've always looked for in a relationship. "

"Query: You mean love and compassion, Master?"

"Well, no," Lane shook his head. "I meant not pestering me to cuddle afterwards."

-

Carth knew he was not lost. He was one of the finest soldiers in the Republic. He had medals to _prove_ of it. Some of them were even made out of _metal. _They wouldn't just give _those_ to anyone. And especially not someone who went around getting lost.

"I know where I am, just not where anything else is," said Carth, immensely pleased with his own logic.

He continued wandering through the wilderness, often disturbing whatever nocturnal critters he came across in the way that only a man in a bright orange jacket can. After finding a creek the hard way, a small faint light caught his eye while he was wringing out his socks. He slowly made his way towards it, cursing the prickly ground with every bare footed step.

It was a camp. Sort of. There was a tent, a fire, and an unconscious Bastila. One of these definitely did not belong. Carth's intuition, having given up on the rest of his basic cognitive processes long ago, proceeded to jump start the soldier's short term memory, and remind him why he came out here.

"Oh, no" Carth said, his fears now coming to life. "I'm too late!" He rushed over to the snoozing Jedi. "What did he do to you?" he asked feverishly, only to be greeted by the dull sound of a long drawn out snore from Bastila.

"I won't let him get away with this!"

-

"I can't believe we're getting away with this," said the Mandalorian who was now piloting the Ebon Hawk. "This is a nice ship."

"Yeah," agreed the Mandalorian setting in the co-pilot's seat. "But I don't get why it's called the Ebon Hawk. It's not black, and it really doesn't look like a hawk. Or even a bird for that matter."

"It does look more like a round. . . square . . u-shaped . . . thingy," said the pilot

"I think it looks like a fish," said the eager voice of the youngest, and least liked Mandalorian who was sitting behind them.

"Shut up," said the co-pilot. "No, one likes you."

"Aren't you suppose to be interrogating the prisoners?" asked the pilot.

"I was, but the big hairy one kept trying to eat my spleen," the young Mandalorian said reproachfully.

"Well, that's what you get for being a showoff," said the co-pilot. "Anyway, we told you to get rid of that disgusting thing. You don't know where it's been."

"Aw, come on guys. It's really cool. Now we can play catch when we're bored."

Behind them sat the Captain of the Mandalorians. He was a decent man, well, a decent Mandalorian. He had followed orders since the day he was born. He had ate when ordered. He had slept when ordered. He had _killed_ when ordered. He had even loved when ordered thanks to one particularly memorable Drill Instructor—which now seemed kind of fishy in retrospect. But he was a soldier, it wasn't his job to question. Listen, obey, die. It had been a simple plan for life, and one that had inadvertently seen him to his current predicament: Leading a group of soldiers more qualified to work the drive-thru of a landlocked marina then fight a decent day's war. But maybe—just maybe—he could turn this bunch into a formidable fighting unit after they reached Kashyyk.

"Get that thing away from me, I told you don't want to touch it!" the co-pilot shrieked.

The Captain sighed. Then again, maybe he would shoot them in hyperspace and use their corpses for bio-organic fuel.

"We're coming up on the camp," said the pilot. "Hey, look. There's someone there."

"Two someones!" the youngest Mandalorian said, leaning across the seat. "And one of them is wearing a styling orange jacket."

"Captain, could that be that the guy we're suppose to be after?" asked the co-pilot. "I mean, that old guy really didn't say what this guy was suppose to look like."

"Son, it doesn't matter. I want off this crazy planet before whatever they put in the air here starts affecting us too," the Captain stood up, and pulled out his rifle. "If this is the wrong guy then that is someone else's problem. Besides, the man is wearing an orange coat. Only an idiot would wear one of those."

"Man, I sure hope he can tell me where I can find a jacket like that!"

"See what I mean?"

-

The ridges beyond the camp were indeed ridgy, almost deliberately so. There were cliffs, hills, ravines, gofer-holes , and Lane half suspected that somewhere out there, there would be even a _plateau. _This was not geography crafted by considerate God, but more the like work of an uppity artist who held numerous undying beliefs, and chief among them that any decent landscape should be about as smooth as a junkies forehead.

"At least we can't get lost," said Lane. "There's only like three paths out here. Good grief, do you think they brought these trees in on a special order?"

Walking closely behind him, HK was worried. The Master had been quite erratic as of late. Which was a common trait among Masters, but this one was also asking a lot of questions. Questions that HK-47 couldn't answer.

"Oh, who cares," Lane said gruffly. "It's not like things are _suppose_ to make sense any more. It's not like anyone values consistency these days. Like these big rocks here. I'm sure there's a reason they're all stacked up the way they are, with the little arch running over there and—"

"I will be your doom!" a loud voice interrupted, as something vaguely humanoid jumped out from behind the rocks. The voice had been heavily accented, but the tone was clear. This was not the voice of someone who was going to be taken lightly. This was the voice of someone quite serious about proving—if only to themselves—that they were _bad_. Nay, down right _evil._

Unfortunately, it did not have the desired effect. Lane merely looked puzzled at HK, who looked back at him before saying, "Explanation: I think it is a cat, Master. It also wishes to inflict physical harm on you, apparently. So many things often do."

"Do not patronize me, Jedi. I will destroy you both," said the woman, or the cat, or the cat-woman. Lane still wasn't sure which one she really was. On the one hand, he had definitely noticed some ample cleavage, on the other it was covered in fur. Plus, she had face that made him want to pour some milk into a saucer. "You shall never take me alive," she said.

"Look, Miss. . . . Ma'am. . . . Kitty, I don't want to take you anywhere. So you can just jump behind your little rock or scratching post there, and we'll all just go back to what we were doing."

"You . . . have not been sent by the council? . . .You are not here to overpower me, and drag me kicking and screaming back before the council to feed your own twisted sense of dominance at the plight of one helpless woman?"

"No, I would have remembered that," said Lane. "Believe me. "

"But are you not a Jedi?"

"Uh. . . not quite, no," said Lane.

"Yet, you carry the weapon of the order," the cat woman said, pointing to lightsaber nestled in Lane's belt.

Momentarily, the overbearing urge to make some blatant innuendo struck Lane, but it soon passed. "I just found it lying on the ground," he said. "It makes a pretty good can opener in a pinch. Not so much so as a flash light, though."

"I see," said the cat-woman. "I should have known. One from the council would not waste time with words, when the killing stroke was so close at hand."

Once again Lane's mind filled with one distorted innuendo after another, but he quickly thought better of it. She was armed and a Jedi, after all. Lane had really bad luck with both of those lately.

"Justice will come quickly for me, of that I have no doubt. The council will not tolerate those it looks down upon," the cat woman's voice dropped low, and sounded quite sad. Prompting Lane to feel sorry for her, or at least giving him the urge to scratch her behind the ears.

"Don't worry about those guys," Lane said. "I doubt they can look down on anyone, especially the short one. They're all either old, or annoying, or both. Just do your own thing, and ignore everything else. That's what I do, _not that it works,_ but it might actually for someone like you."

The cat-woman looked at Lane, and he was suddenly startled. There was something in her eyes. Something he had never seen ever before, and it scared him.

It was admiration.

"Oh, sh—"

-

The second thing Number Three noticed about Kashyyk was the gloom. It was everywhere. Did this planet even have a sun? It was impossible tell down here. The third thing he noticed were the trees. They stood amid the gloom like towering wooden behemoths, alerting all that here nature held sway, and took no prisoners.

Of course, the _first_ thing he noticed were the Wookies. They were obviously upset. He could tell by all the snarling and the gashing of teeth. He had also spent the last few weeks in the company of one of the most temperamental creatures in the universe; a woman. So he had learned to pick up on the subtle showings of a mood swing. Which is precisely why kept his eyes tightly shut until all the screaming, and disturbing gurgling sounds had stopped.

There was the brief reverted hum of a lightsaber being switched off when Number Three slowly opened his eyes.

"Oh, gross. I got Wookie blood all over me," he said. "At least, I think that's blood."

The woman standing in front of him was remarkably well composed for one who had just committed a gruesome massacre. In fact, not even her hair was mused. He felt this was disturbingly unfair.

"Not that I'm complaining or anything, cause I know we're Sith and all—I mean _were_ Sith," he quickly corrected himself when the woman shot him a dark glance. "But uh. . . maybe we should try talking to people for a change. Instead of, you know, cutting them up."

The woman said nothing. Instead she walked off into the gloom. Number Three didn't want to follow her. He didn't want to come to this backwoods planet either, but here he was. There was no doubt the woman was driven by some hidden strife. There was a sense of barely contained hell about her, and heaven help who or whatever was unlucky enough to set her off.

He could run. He doubted she would chase him. What would be the point? He was of no use to her, they both knew that. He could run, and make it back to the ship within the hour. Then he could go back; back to the Sith. Back to his old life, and away from traitorous and emotionally disturbed, psychopathic women. It would be so easy. He could go right now.

But he didn't.

-


End file.
